Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind
by Mayor Tokey
Summary: OUATIM and SW. It’s on the road again for Agent Sands and Mort Rainey. What sort of vicious demons will they have to face along the way? Chapter 16 lives!
1. Impatience is a Virtue

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

Rating: R

Summary: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean the CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Impatience is a Virtue**

Mort sat as his desk staring at the flashing insertion point on his monitor. He sighed with frustration, and reached for the pack of Pall Malls to the left of his keyboard. He tapped one out and stuck it in the corner of his mouth frowning. It was the last one. He looked at his new watch to see what time it was. If he hurried, he could make it to New London before the convenience store closed.

He quickly shut down his computer, and left his house. He shivered a little in the late evening chill, and slid into his trusty old Jeep closing the door firmly behind him. The ride to New London went uneventful as usual. He reached the convenience store on the outskirts of the town about 20 minutes later. His eyebrows furrowed as he noticed a flashy sports car out front. Most people in this part of the country had SUV's or trucks, it was unusual to see something as flashy as the bright red corvette with black racing stripes down it. He pulled up to the front door, and killed the engine. Pocketing his keys, he hopped out.

He made his way to the door, peering in the windows trying to get a glimpse of the owner of the car, but he could see nothing between all the advertisements for beer and cigarettes. He went in with, and was announced with a jangle above his head. He looked around curiously, but saw no one although he heard the voices of muted conversation.

He heard the occasional giggle of the young girl who worked there, and a deeper voice of a man. Mort ducked his head a little, so that he was hidden behind the shelves of items, as he made his way closer to the counter. As he got closer, he could make out the words the man was speaking, and froze when he heard his name come from the man.

"That's right. Morton Rainey. Do you know him, or do you not?" The man sounded as though he were ready to reach across the counter and grab the girl by the throat in the hopes of wringing an answer out of her. His dark eyes sparked in the filtered light of the supermarket and there was a line building up behind him. He either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Morton Rainey? Isn't he that... author? That writes stuff?" the girl asked. The stranger's teeth were about to be worn down to nubs from the constant grinding.

"Yes. Morton Rainey. The author. That writes stuff. Do not make me say this again."

"Yeah, I think I know him. Kind of scruffy." She was searching the store for an example of 'scruffy'. "Sorta like that guy over there," she pointed. By sheer, dumb luck, she'd found the real Morton Rainey.

"Uh..." Mort was a little surprised to be caught eavesdropping, but it didn't seem as if the clerk realized that that's what he'd been doing.

When Mort saw the man's face who'd been talking to the girl, he felt himself begin to grow nervous. He gave the man a timid smile, and came out from behind the aisle. He stuck out his hand, and introduced himself.

"Morton Rainey." As he spoke, his eyes began to dart around the store which now seemed very small.

The man didn't respond, just looked at him with an odd grin on his face making Mort all the more nervous. Mort started to step away towards the counter, but was stopped by the man's firm grip which still held his hand. The "handshake" was growing firmer. Mort swallowed hard.

"Uh...if you'll excuse me...I've got a story I need to work on..." His eyes full of apprehension met the hard ones before him. "W-would you let go of my hand?"

"I would if you weren't such a hard man to track down, Mr. Rainey. You wouldn't be averse to a walk, would you?" He lifted his arm over Mort's head without releasing his grip and settled it around the other man's shoulders. "Not that I'm giving you a choice in the matter. Thanks, sugarbutt. You're a doll," he called back to the cashier, a tight smile on his face.

"Now Mort... you don't mind if I smoke do you? I've been dying for a smoke all fucking morning." Without waiting for an answer, he had gotten out some rolling paper and the tobacco pouch he kept in his pocket for such occasions. He released Mort, banking on the instinct that the writer would be too curious to bolt immediately. "The name's Sands. S. J. Sands. Do you have any idea why I'd be looking for a Morton Rainey?"

He stopped in front of the slick roadster and turned to face Mort, leaning against the side. Sticking the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, he lit it while waiting for Mort to reply.

Mort looked longingly at the cigarette dangling from the man's mouth.

"I-uh, have no idea what you'd want me for. I don't know who you are." He squinted his eyes, which made them look tiny behind his glasses.

He looked around them nervously, listening to Sands taking long drags on his cigarette. He looked longingly at his Jeep, but made no move to go towards it. He felt as if he were trapped, as if this man had some sort of invisible restraint on him-he didn't like that, and he knew there was something that could be done about it. He felt a bit more courageous, and finally met Sands eyes again, and gave him an eerie smile. He then proceeded to twist his neck. He opened his mouth wide, and cracked his jaw loudly.

He blinked, and when his eyes opened again, it seemed as if they were somehow lazy, drooped a bit lower than they were moments before.

"Why I do believe I know what yer after Mister Sands. You think I have somethin' ta do with Amy and Ted's disappearances righ'?" He grinned broadly, but it wasn't at all friendly. "Well yer wrong mister-I ain't never heard from Amy or Ted goin' on a month now. But if you hear something from Mort's purdy lady, you tell her to give her husband a call. Her disappearance has rattled his brain so..." He looked down at his watch. "Well if you'll excuse me, there's some work I need to be tendin' to and I've got to be getting' Morty his Pall Malls or he'll go crazy." He cackled dryly, and turned to go back into the store.

"Morty? Well, this wasn't in the file, was it?" Sands sighed. They never told him anything. Christ on a fucking cracker. He did something very stupid. He reached out and snagged the other man's arm. "Listen, guy, you don't walk out on me. I walk out on you, savvy? Now you're going to talk, or I'm going to have to make you talk. You're not going to like this. And who the fuck smokes Pall Malls, anyway? They taste like shit."

Sands didn't grab the other man's arm strong enough to hold him, but he did stop. His entire body went rigid with anger. He turned around to face Sands.

"Jus' who do you think you are mister? Get yer filty cotton pickin' hand off me-or I'm a haff ta do somethin' bout it-ya hear?" He wretched his arm out of Sands' grasp with a strength that his body belittled. "I dun know who you are come prancin' into town in yer fancy lil' car, but you don' play games with me. And you certainly' don' play games with Morty."

He was getting tired of this foul man. He turned back around once again, his eyes scanning the expanse of parking lot. "Too bad thar' ain't no shovels around." He spotted a broom up against a trashcan by the door. "I s'pose that will work jest as well."

Sands moved on autopilot. There was no way in hell this loon was going to lay a hand on him if it could be helped. He dropped to a crouch and swiped the other man's feet out from under him and didn't wince when 'Mort's head hit the pavement.

"Threatening me was a no-no. You see, I work for the government and an attack on me is a terrorist act. So, if you're going to act be a pain in the ass, I'd like to know ahead of time. I like to keep ahead of the game."

He took a deep drag on the cig and tapped the ashes on the other man's chest. "My hands don't pick cotton, fuckmook. Who are you?"

'Mort' glared at the man above him, a frown crossing his face at the throbbing that was beginning at the base of his skull.

"Mah name's Shooter, John Shooter, and jest what the hell do you think yer doin?" He shook his head ignoring the sharp pains shooting through it. "I told ya, ya don' wanna mess with Morty. Dangerous things happen—things out of his control. But you're a tough cop-eh?" He grinned once more before shutting his eyes, and once again cracking his jaw.

"That, sir, is an insult. I'm not a fucking 'cop'," he exhaled smoke into 'Shooter's' face. "I'm a secret agent man. Now you're going to get up and get into my car before I beat you with my billy club. You understand, Cotton-Eye Joe?" He slapped the fallen man's cheek lightly for emphasis.

Mort's eyes blinked open, and he looked up at Sands in somewhat of a dazed expression. "Excuse me?" He asked softly, the heavy southern drawl gone.

He grimaced in disgust at the smoke blown in his face. Hand rolled cigarettes-he despised them. Remembering why he was at the store, he tilted his head back and looked behind him to see that the girl was locking up the front of the store.

"Shit..." He muttered to himself. He needed some cigarettes.

The girl saw them and waved out jovially oblivious to their position, Mort on his back, and Sands crouched over him. Mort couldn't help but roll his eyes at her naïveté, which caused a sharp pain to shoot through his head. "Shit!" he cursed again.

He pushed Sands aside to sit up much to the agent's annoyance. He sat there his head cradled in his hands, fighting back the nausea. He needed a fucking cigarette!

"Oh, well, sucks to be you, Shithead," Sands smirked. He didn't really delight in other people's pain. Or that's what the Company told him anyway. He was just an efficient worker bee. He sucked the last of the cigarette before flicking the butt away, savoring the last bit.

"You ready to go? Or do I have to do some more convincing?"

He blinked, and looked up at Sands through the mess of his hair. "What? Go? Where are we going?" He was absolutely dumbfounded as to why this man would want him to go anywhere with him.

He didn't want him to have to "do some more convincing" though, so he slowly stood to his feet dusting off his back. He fought the nausea that rose in his throat as he stood with dizziness. He wanted more than anything to go back home to his cabin, and the comfort of his couch. He looked over his shoulder at his Jeep not far away. Then he looked back at Sands, who was looking at him pointedly.

He let out a resigned sigh, and nodded. He watched the man very closely as he turned to unlock the passenger side door. As soon as his back was turned, Mort got a rush of adrenaline, and dashed for his Jeep. He unlocked his door, and made it in before Sands had gotten to the drivers side door.

By then Mort's entire body was shaking, as he looked at the infuriated agent through the window.

_Shit, shit, shit, stupid, stupid, stupid. Okay, you had your chance. You blew it. Stop being an idiot and get this fuck where you need him. Whoever he is this time._

Sands nodded slowly, feeling his jaw muscles twitch ever tighter. The man had a weakness. Pall Malls. Sands didn't have Pall Malls, but his did have cheap store-bought shit sticks when the hick store in Tashmore Lakes neglected to stock the tobacco he liked. But he'd have to get to his glove compartment to get them and the Jeep was made for hauling over any terrain. Sure, the roadster would catch it on a straightaway, but the undercarriage was already shaken to bits from the dirt roads. It looked like his astounding power of negotiation would have to suffice again.

"Look, Shooter. Morty. Whoever the hell you are. I bet that you aren't going to like this but I've been told quite forcefully that I'm to find you by any means necessary. I assume that means by force if applicable." Sands raised his government-issued Glock into view. "I'd say this was applicable. You're either going to step out of the car, or I'm going to nail you. Unlike my colleagues who are more qualified for a job like this, my superiors know I'm insane enough to do anything to get my man."

His mouth quirked into a feral smile as he watched for a reaction, no matter how slight. He didn't have to search for a reaction on Mort's face. The other man's complexion immediately paled, but he remained steadfast for a few more minutes, until Sands once again raised his firearm. Mort swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the interior of his Jeep. A thought came to mind, and his eyes lingered on the glove compartment, then slid over to the armrest compartment. _Which one?_ he thought to himself. He began to chew on his cheek.

He turned to see if Sands had miraculously gotten tired of waiting for him to come out and play. He was still standing there staring at him, his Glock in full view now. _Well, this is it..._ He thought, and with one last glance at Sands, he dove across the seats praying that it was in the glove compartment, and not the armrest.

"Ahhhh!" He heard himself scream and covered his head with his hands as his window shattered.

He didn't wait another moment. He flung open the glove compartment and grabbed his screwdriver. He turned and faced the agent, armed with the weapon only Shooter knew as lethal.

Sands snorted. "Unless you know how to throw that thing, you're fucked. Just admit it. It'll make life easier for both of us. And Christ, do you know how bad bullet wounds are? I refuse to take you to a hospital if I shoot you and that means I'm going to be stuck babying your sorry self." He gestured with the gun. "Come out of here now before I shoot you for real."

Mort just stared at him, frozen to the spot. His eyes were open wide, and he just shook his head. Left and right, back and forth, causing the dull ache in his head to throb some more. His breathing was erratic, and his eyes began to narrow. Then they rolled up into his head.

His eyes flew open, and Sands' gaze was met with one of rage. Mort lunged taking no mind of the gun other than to aim his stab at the hand holding it.

"Ugh!" he made some sort of sound as he used all his energy to thrust the screwdriver into Sands' hand.

"Owwww!" He moaned as the screwdriver came only into contact with the metal of the Jeep, scraping the paint off, and causing a metallic sound to rip through the air.

Mort clamped his hands over his ears, dropping the screwdriver to the ground outside his Jeep. His eyes were wide and unblinking. After the ringing in his head had died down, he was distracted by a movement out of the corner of his eye.

He turned, and frowned with disbelief. The clerk was getting into her car-and waving at them! Was the whole fucking town nuts? There was a guy with a gun pointed at him! He watched as the clerk's carthe last in the parking lot besides his Jeep, and Sands' roadster, sped off into the sunset.

Sands took the opportunity the clerk had given him on a silver platter. With the window shattered, he had no problem reaching out and decking Mort on the side of the head with the butt of his pistol. Mort went down instantly his forehead landing on the horn of the Cherokee. Sands winced at the noise and shoved the heavier man back into the seat.

"All right, Sleeping Beauty, c'mon," he sighed. Sands opened the door and hefted Mort over his shoulder. He got to the two-seater and unceremoniously dumped him into the seat. He almost stopped to roll another cigarette, but decided the farther he was away from the store he was when Mort woke up, the better off he'd be. He slid into the roadster and turned the key, taking a moment to buckle the other man up. A little restraint never hurt anybody. Sands then eased off the clutch, nudged the gas, and they were on the road to... somewhere.

Mort awoke, to the sound of Nirvana blasting, filling his head. He opened his eyes slowly, unsure about what exactly had happened since he saw the clerk leaving the store. All he could see was darkness. He could feel movement beneath him, and lifted his head wincing in pain. He was in a car, the stretch of dark pavement sliding past at a very fast pace.

He turned to his left to see Sands looking straight ahead smoking one of his horrid cigarettes. He moaned with a mixture of weariness and pain, making Sands aware that he was now awake.

"Why me?" Mort whispered, directing the question not to Sands, but to himself, to Shooter. _You cain't do nothin' yerself-you need me Morty. You need me ter take care of this man like I did Ted and Amy, you need me to protect you._ Mort did not want to hear this, so he did his best to ignore the hick that was trying to once again take over his body. "Why me?" Mort yelled over the blare of the radio. He turned to glare at the man driving who'd turned to look at him.

Sands turned the radio down slightly, sparing an amused glance for his outraged passenger.

"Feeling a bit melodramatic, are we?"

Mort let out a strangled cry. He made an attempt to get his safety belt undone, at the same time pulling at the door handle. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic, what with Shooter's musings, and Sand's calm amusement. He began pulling at the seatbelt frantically, unable to steady his hands enough to release it.

"Oh my Christ." Sands yanked the wheel of the vehicle to the left, narrowly avoiding clipping another car with the rear of the roadster. He muscled across the 4 lane traffic of I-95 South and managed to get into the breakdown lane before Mort's fingers could undo the seatbelt. He jammed the stick into Neutral and pulled the handbrake. He had a gun pointed at Mort's head in no time.

"Now you're going to cooperate with me, Morty, or I'm going to blow your head off. I have no problems with this. My partner would agree if he were around to tell you. You just sit tight, Morty, and we'll get to my little backwater cabin before you know it. Capiche?"

As soon as the car began to veer, Mort's breathing had grown erratic. The car spun off to the side of the road, and he continued to pull at everything within in his grasp, no longer focused enough to pull on just the safety belt. He had pulled at his own clothes, and then he'd somehow ended up pulling on Sands' t-shirt.

As soon as the car came to a halt, Mort was face to face with the gun that'd shot out his window. His tugging on the man's shirt ceased at the voiced threat and the gun in his face. He gripped Sands' shirt for another moment before releasing it. Mort met Sand's cold eyes which glittered in the lights from the lights off the interstate, and cowered away. He pressed himself against the passenger side door, and curled into a fetal position and began rocking, muttering to himself insanely.

"Oh stop whining," Sands sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Mort's rocking ceased, and his mumbling trailed off. Then he turned to look at Sands.

"Excuse mah?" He drawled in the thick accent of Shooter.

"Jesus, not you again." Sands was beginning to catch on. It was either MPDMultiple Personality Disorderor this guy was a hell of an actor. Sources leant towards the former. "What the hell do you want?"

"Jus' where the hell do you think yer takin us?" His lips pursed as he stared Sands down through half lidded eyes.

"Ah'm takin' you tuh where Ah c'n keep 'n eye on you. Can you dig it?"

"Oh I believe we can most certainly dig it Mister Sands." Shooter smiled sardonically, as he chuckled.

His chuckles were cut short by another voice.

"Why do you need to keep an eye on me?" Mort looked at Sands nervously. "I didn't do anything! I'm innocent-I didn't do what they say I did!" His cries grew louder, and he looked around the car frantically. He turned away from Sands and started tugging on the door handle even though he couldn't get the door unlocked. He began to shake again.

"Please let me out." He whispered almost inaudibly.

"Oh I don't think I want to be doing that, amigo. It'd piss off the high ups. Or maybe I do," Sands replied thoughtfully.

Mort stopped tugging on the door at his words. "The high ups?" He asked turning around to look at him. "Wh-who do you work for?"

"That's on a need to know basis, sugarbutt," he smirked before rolling another cigarette. This was a long day. So much for the whole cutting back idea.

Mort wrinkled his nose in disgust as the acrid smoke wafted toward his nose. "Well I at least expect an explanation as to why I'm wanted..." He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You don't know?"

Mort frowned and looked at him quizzically. "I don't know? I don't know what? That I'm being taken against my will for some story that's most likely all bullshit? Listen here buddy-I don't like people making me feel inferior. I want to know who sent you and why the hell you're after me!" He'd moved away from the door and was nearly on top of the center console, his face turning red.

"Easy, down boy. Don't have a stroke," Sands shoved Mort back into his seat. "If you don't know why you're one of the most wanted men in America, it's probably better you don't know. Easier to plead innocence."

Mort glared at him as he pushed him away, but soon he was puzzled. One of the most wanted men in America? He sat silently musing this over for a moment, analyzing it for all he could, but he still came up with no logical answer.

"Well then there's nothing to worry aboutI'll just go home and when they set the court date, I'll show up. Now if you don't mind I'd like to return to my cabin-I've got a story to work on." His mind thought back to earlier that day when he'd sat staring at the blank screen. Damn. Why had he left his cabin in the first place? For cigarettes. Oh...right...

"Are you always this bitchy when you're being taken against your will? There are some cigarettes in the glove compartment. I wouldn't smoke them all at once. I don't buy those often."

At the mention of cigarettes, Mort's eyes widened, and he lunged for the glove compartment eagerly. He threw it open almost ripping the door off, in his haste. When he spotted the familiar packaging of a brand that was vaguely familiar to him, his eyes bugged even wider, and a broad grin swept across his face.

He quickly tore open a pack, and had one in his mouth in no time. He began patting down his pockets hunting for his lighter. His mouth began to droop in a frown, the cigarette dangling from a corner. He turned to Sands who'd been watching the whole time.

You wouldn't happen to have a lighter would you?" He asked sarcastically.

"I don't smoke," Sands tossed his Zippo at Mort.

Mort looked at Sands oddly before lighting up. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the nicotine coursing through him. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat relaxing a bit. He opened one eye while remaining reclined, and looked at Sands.

"Tell me what you are again, if not a cop."

"I already told you what I am, chico. Or maybe I told your better half. I'm having a hell of a time telling you two apart." He paused to take a drag. "So how the hell did he come about anyway? I'm curious."

Mort glared at him. "Don't call me 'chico'! That bastard killed him..." He trailed off remembering. "Shooter. Shooter killed my dog. Stabbed him straight through the chest with my fucking screwdriver!" By now Mort was down to the butt, but was smoking it just as furiously as he would a fresh one.

"Tell me you weren't a Chico and the Man fan," Sands groaned, his head leaned back against the headrest. This man was the epitome of bad taste. The argyle, the gray tones. Christ, it was as if the man wanted to _blend in_ or something. "Chicoooooo, don't be discouraaaaaaaaged."

Mort frowned and tossed the butt out the window. "Hey like it's any better than the Love Boat!" he retorted bitterly. He sighed with annoyance. "Are we just going to sit here all night having a little pow wow or are you going to take me wherever the hell it is you plan on holding me?"

"I liked the Love Boat," Sands frowned. Then he glanced in the mirror. "Shit."

"What?" Mort asked as he turned around in his seat. All he saw was a couple of state highway patrol cars, nothing to worry about if he was an authority himself. He turned back to Sands questioningly.

Sands was grumbling under his breath, chewing the end of his cigarette like gum. He hated it when the locals had to poke their asses into his business. Not the Company's business. _His_ business. As far as he was concerned, this Mort scandal was his project now. The blue lights flickered behind the still quiet roadster. A fat cop was heaving himself out of the patrol car.

Sands leaned over to eye Mort. "What do you say we have a little fun?"

Mort's eyes widened a bit as he looked from Sands' psychotic smile to the overweight patrolman heading towards the car. He swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat; it was all too close to home to him.

"W-what do you mean?" He asked nervously although he was sure he had an idea.

"Just let me do the talking, sugarbutt," Sands grinned. The cop was outside the door and knocking to get their attention. Sands blinked with wide eyes and shrugged dramatically at the gestures. The cop mimed rolling down the window.

"¿QUÉ?" Sands yelled. "¡NO SÉ DE QUE SE HABLA, SEÑOR!"

Mort's eyebrows furrowed and he tried to hide it behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He watched the cop's reaction to the "fact" that Sands didn't understand what he was saying. After a few more minutes of the patrolman attempting to gesture at Sands, Mort had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. At one point he let out a snort only to receive a death glare from Sands.

After about 5 minutes of gesturing and yelling, the cop's face was bright red with irritation. Just when Mort thought the man would spontaneously combust, a female officer stepped up to Sands' window. Female she was.

Sands rolled the window down, exhaled the pent up cigarette smoke in the red pig's face and smiled amicably at the girl.

"Hola. ¿Qué pasa?"

Mort shook his head and rolled his eyes as he watched Sands' demeanor change. He wondered how long the charade was going to last; he was rather bored with the whole affair. He needed another cigarette. He reached for the glove compartment, to be stopped by the cocking of a gun, and the female officer's hard voice.

"Just hold it right there amigo! Don't move another inch or I'll be forced to blow your brains all over this lovely car. Comprendé?" She smiled sweetly at Mort who just gaped at her.

_Good Lord! She's this man's feminine equal!_ Mort thought to himself. _I'm really in deep horse manure now._

"Hang on, hang on a sec. You can't just go blowing my buddy's head off here. That's not very nice. Guy probably just wants another cigarette, doesn't he?" Sands glared at Mort. Didn't the little fuckmook know not to move for hidden objects in front of a small town cop?

"I thought you didn't speak English?" the woman sneered.

"Well, niña, I'm an asshole," Sands smirked.

Mort backed away from the glove compartment, and tried to hide behind Sands' back. She still hadn't put the gun down.

"Step out of the car sir." The lady hissed.

Mort decided it was time to say something. "Um-listen...I don't know this guy he just uh..." He didn't want to get the guy in trouble, he just wanted to go back home to his cabin. "He just met me up at a store and was giving me a ride to uh..." he looked around at the flat expanse of highway. "He was giving me a ride to the next town. But I've changed my mind and if you would be so kind as to take me back home-"

He was cut off by the other cop who was now rapping on his window. Mort jumped and looked at the man's sweaty face glaring at him through the window.

"Open the door 'Farmer John'," He sneered.

Mort's face hardened. "I can't!"

His anger about not being able to open the door turned from Sands to the stinky, sweaty patrolman.

Sands rolled his eyes. Christ on a cracker. He knew it would fizzle. Time to wrap this bad operation up before someonenamely himselfgot hurt.

"Listen, chica. Vero cabrón," Sands smiled tightly at the pissed off cop. "We were taking a break. I-95 isn't the most hospitable of roads, you see. However, if one of you fine cop folks would like to be our escort... make sure we don't swerve all over the place-"

"Get out of the fucking car." She hissed keeping her gun steady between his eyes.

Mort meanwhile was beginning to grow increasingly nervous as the sweaty cop was getting more and more pissed off as well.

"Uh...Sands..." Mort wrung his sweating hands.

Sands held his hand up, holding Mort's protests back. His smile was all but frozen in place, staring the hard-assed girl down. He flicked out his badge, making sure she caught a good look, before sticking it back in the confines of his pocket.

"That suffice, niña? I still require a police escort."

She glared, but said no more to Sands. She kept the gun pointed for a few more seconds before she replaced it in the holster on her hip.

"Let's move." She called out to the other cop. "If you'd be so kind as to escort _Agent Sands_ here, I'll pick up the rear." She gave one last cold start at Sands before she disappeared into the second vehicle, shortly followed by the obese cop who waddled to his car.

Once they had left, Mort let out a relieved breath. As Sands started the car, he thought about what the woman had said. After he'd buckled up once again, he turned to question him.

"So-what are you? Some sort of spy or something? Agent Sands?"

"Sure, sugarbutt, whatever you say," Sands had effectively tuned Mort out. He had focused his attention on the one following cop and pulling onto I-95 without smashing up the car. For a state full of SUV's and mud covered trucks, they sure moved pretty damn fast. Sands spared a squint in the mirror for the cruiser that had turned its lights off to follow him up to the lake cottage he'd rented for his operation. It looked like the pig. It didn't much matter to Sands though. The sooner he got his wicked deed done, the better.

Mort sighed and decided to leave it at that, he had a feeling that was all he was going to get out of the man. He opened the glove compartment and retrieved another cigarette. As he lay back smoking, he began to relax a little. It had been one hell of a day, and he was exhausted. He didn't know if he was more physically or mentally exhausted, not that it really mattered at that point.

He fell into a fitful sleep, only to be woken a few minutes later by a searing pain on his palm.

"Oh SHIT!" He yelled jumping up as high as he could with his safety harness on. He'd fallen asleep with the still burning cigarette between his fingers.

"Nice one, John Wayne, you do that often?" Sands snorted with laughter. He'd seen the trouble coming, but it didn't seem to pose any threat to the upholstery so he'd waited for the inevitable. He wasn't disappointed either.

Mort was now as pissed off as he thought he could be. "Fuck you!" he spat! "I'm tired of all this 'Whatever you say' bullshit-I want to know the truth and I want to know it now!"

He was fed up, and he felt the last threads of his sanity slipping away quickly. He knew the only way he would get any answers would be to take things into his own hands-or at least attempt it. The worst that could happen is that he would be taken into custody by the fat cop.

In a rush of adrenaline, he reached out and jerked the steering wheel all the way to the right, and held it there. Before Sands could hit the brakes, they were doing a doughnut in the middle of I-95.

"Shit!" Sands swore. Instinct took over before his brain had a chance to rightfully react. He tore the gun out of its holster and brained the other man on the head. By the time he had the car under control, the roadster was aimed squarely at the oncoming traffic and specifically, the pig in the blue cop car. He felt his heart stop as the squeal and crunch of metal on metal assaulted his ears.


	2. Psychoanalyze Me, Cap'n!

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer**: I own nada. I'm pretty sure my cohort owns nothing either, but then again, I never asked. This is just a twisted little tail with characters belonging to Stephen King and Robert Rodriguez. Even the title partially belongs to someone else, i.e. The Doors from their song "Peace Frog." We're not worthy!

**Psychoanalyze Me Cap'n **

Sandy, the lady cop, was about half a mile away, when she saw the roadster swing out of control. She was a quarter of a mile away when she saw the control resumed, going the wrong way.

"Shit!" She swore and radioed for backup, it was already one huge mess. She just hoped that none of them had been too seriously injured, although she wouldn't have any objections to _Agent Sands_ getting a bump or two.

When she reached the carnage, she was only grateful that the pig of a cop drove nearly as slowly as he waddled. She helped him out of his vehicle-he only had a couple of scratches really. Then she turned to assist the other men.

She peered in the passenger side window, and saw that the 'Farmer John' was unconscious, even had a growing bump on the side of his head that looked suspiciously the size of the barrel of a Glock. She then turned her attention to the prick on the driver's side.

Sands was, more or less, unconscious. The impact had thrown him back against the seat and kicked him forward into the steering wheel. There was blood dribbling down his lip and a cut on his forehead. Being a somewhat outdated car, there weren't any airbags. This meant he'd more than likely be sporting a stylish bruise down his torso from the seatbelt as well.

The pig cop had fallen out of his car after he'd managed to unstrap himself from the twisted wreckage. His cruiser had faired better than the other, being of sterner stuff than the little sports car.

"I couldn't stop," he panted. "They were just in front of me. They're still alive, aren't they?"

"Yeah, yeah, they're fine." She said looking over Sands' injuries. "I'm sure the boss will want them taken to the hospital though."

She looked at Mort's unconscious figure, wondering what the CIA could want with the renowned author. She'd heard about his wife and her boyfriend, and how he'd been suspected in their disappearances, but she doubted the man could so much as harm an ant.

She turned around as another patrol car pulled up, this one with the Sheriff's logo emblazoned on the side. She walked up to the car to greet her boss. Sheriff Dave Newsome climbed out of the vehicle.

"What is it Officer Lehmann?"

"Well sir, it seems that Agent Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency, requested our escort services to his place of residence. Somehow he lost control of his vehicle and collided head on with Barney here. I don't know what happened for him to lose control, but I'm guessing with the unmistakable knot from a Glock on his head, it would have something to do with his passenger." She spoke as if she were bored; one hip jutted out as she mindlessly tapped her foot.

"Passenger? What would somebody have to do to get conked on the head?" Dave's brow furrowed in thought. "What's the Central Intelligence Agency doing up here in Maine?"

Sandy just shrugged her shoulders. "Couldn't tell ya boss. By the looks of him though, he needs to be stitched up a bit, so I'm sure we'll have a chance to question him properly. Did you call for the ambulance like I requested?"

"I sure did. They should be coming any minute."

"Should we keep watch while we wait for them to show?" Barney asked.

"It's our duty." Dave paused. "I know that passenger. That's Mr. Rainey. Do you think this has something to do with the murders up by his cabin?"

Sandy frowned a bit. "I thought there wasn't any proof of those "murders"; I thought it was just rumor... There was no evidence was there?" She asked genuinely confused now. She'd never been informed of the whole story.

"There was no concrete evidence that we've found, but there's no doubt in my mind that he's the one who killed them." There was steel in Dave's voice as a siren screeched and an ambulance skidded to a halt beside the totaled roadster.

Sandy just looked at the sheriff quizzically. She'd been trained that nothing _is_ until it's concrete: until there's solid evidence.

She answered the EMT's questions, and watched as they extracted the men from the wreckage. Then she radioed the towing company, who said they'd be there in a little less than an hour. Great, she thought. A whole night wasted on a dumb ass like _Agent Sands_! She returned to her patrol car once everyone else had left the scene. After about 20 minutes, she got restless and decided to look in the car. Perhaps there would be some clue as to why the CIA was interested in Morton Rainey.

Mort moaned, and tried to turn over, but he couldn't. His head was much too heavy, and there was a dull ache. He lay still for a moment, and listened to the noises around him. He heard the unmistakable sounds of a hospital, along with the familiar ranting from a certain agent.

"No, you bastards, listen t'me! I know who the killer is! I can bring th'bastard dowwwwwwwwwwn! He stole my grape juice and I'm gonna tear his balls off! Twist and... and... yaaaaaaaaank..."

Mort's eyes flew open, and he squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights. He sat up as quickly as he could without making himself any dizzier than he already was. He reached out and yanked the curtain separating their beds.

"What the hell are you..." He trailed off as he noticed that Sands was still sound asleep. He shook his head in disbelief. "That man is crazier than I am," he mumbled to himself. He pulled the curtain closed as a nurse rushed in upon hearing the agent's yelling.

Mort lay back on the bead, his head throbbing. He looked around him in the bright room, wondering where his clothes were. Spotting a closet, he made his way over to it, to see that indeed his clothes were inside. He quickly shed the flimsy hospital gown and replaced it with his familiar pants and sweater. His glasses were on the table by the bed, so he slid them onto his nose.

Mort cautiously made his way to the door, and peeked behind the curtain once again to see the man still sound asleep. He quietly slid from the room, into the hall.

He knew the hospital well; it was the only one within a 30 mile radius. He went down the hall a ways and slipped into a room. He paused for a few minutes, then peeked back out into the hall. Make sure no one was following; he wouldn't want any other agents to come after him. After the coast was clear, he took a deep breath causing the blood to pound even worse in his head and slid down the laundry chute. When he emerged in the basement of the building, the janitors looked at him oddly. He just waved at them and made his way out the side entrance. Once he was outside, he took a deep breath of the fresh air. He looked around, and spotted the sheriff's car. _Uh-oh, _he thought. _Better get out of hereand fast! _He quickly bummed a ride with someone unfamiliar with his face and was soon on his way home.

Sands jerked awake with a snort. The blinding whiteness burned his retinas and nothing registered with his last clear memory of zooming down a highway. There was a strong feeling a grape juice too, come to think of it. He shook it off and blinked. A nurse was standing right above him.

"Do not move, Mr. Sands. This is a delicate procedure and if you move, there could be some bad healing in your future."

"Wha-?" he croaked.

"Don't move, Mr. Sands!"

"Wha? Where am...?" He jerked upright, eyes burning and now a searing pain from his forehead. If he wasn't mistaken, this was a... oh fuck... "No, get the fuck away from me!"

He kicked away from the orderlies trying to keep him down and fell out of the gurney. Oh Christ, not a hospital, anywhere but a fucking hospital.

Sandy stalked down the hall to _Agent Sands'_ room, the sheriff and Barney following behind her as quickly as they could. Her face was set, her eye twitched occasionally. Ever since she'd spotted the man the day before, she wanted to nail him, and now she had her chance. When she reached his room, she pushed open the door hard enough for it to knock against the wall, and took in the scene before her.

Sands was on the floor, arms and legs flailing, fighting off 2 nurses and a janitor. She shook her head not in the least bit amused.

"What the hell are you doing? Stop playing games and get in the fucking bed." She spoke sternly, giving him a pointed look. "We've got business to discuss." She gave him a sick smile.

Sands didn't seem to hear the command. He fought like a wild animal, trying first and foremost get away from the immediate danger. A nurse was trying to prep a syringe of some sleep inducer or another, something Sands wanted no part of. He slammed a fist against the janitor's jaw and scrambled away.

_Freedom!_ his mind screamed. _Get out! Get out of here!_

He never saw the well cushioned stomach of Barney the cop until he'd ricocheted off it. It didn't take Sands long to realize that he was cornered. That was when the nurse took the opportunity to stick him in the arm with the needle and the world swam out of focus.

"Just take it easy chump! Have a seat." Sandy smirked at his reaction when he ran into Barney. She couldn't help but chuckle as he stood swaying.

The nurses helped him to the bed where they brought in restraints. They wouldn't want the man hurting himself, much less someone else. The janitor glared at him, before grabbing his cart and wheeling it out of the room noisily. Once Sands was strapped to the bed semi-conscious, Sandy walked to and stood over him. She dangled a sandwich bag above his nose.

"Mind telling me what this is about darlin'?"

"Ugh."

Sandy rolled her eyes, and turned to stare at the nurse who'd given him the drug. "Just how much of that shit did you give him dimwit?" she asked. The nurse's face tinged pink, but she held her head high.

"Exactly what the doctor said. He needs to relax and calm down. He was hyperventilating."

"No shit Einstein." Sandy muttered under her breath. She let out an agitated sigh. "Looks like we'll be here a while," she said aloud to Barney and Dave. "In the meantime maybe we can wrangle some answers out of 'Farmer John'." She walked across the room and pulled back the curtain. "Shit," she spat as she saw the empty bed. She went back to where the sheriff and Barney were standing by Sands' bed.

"Well, looks as if 'Farmer John's' pulled one over on us fellas. He's flown the coop." She gave a tight lipped smile as she looked down at Sands' face, and saw something click when she'd said something about Mort being gone.

The meds were fast acting, whatever they were, and had completely incapacitated him. He'd flinched at the noise that was being made around him, unable to stop it or cover his ears. It was alternately infuriating-this weakness-and horrific. Things were happening and he couldn't control it. What was _it_? The last bit of sentient thought Sands had was devoted to cursing every single thing that could possibly be cursed. The rest of his brain couldn't think of much to curse, so he gave up. After about an hour, Sandy began pacing the room. She continuously looked at her watch. This was not her ideal way to spend a Friday morning. Finally she went and retrieved a nurse.

"I was told this stuff would start fucking wearing off after an hour! Look!" She gestured to Sands. "He's still got the stoned grin on his fucking face!" She looked at Barney sheepishly for her strong language. She was glad that Dave had other business to attend to, and was not there to witness her impatience.

The nurse spoke falteringly. "Well… erm it depends on if he fights it or not-"

_Oh he's fucking enjoying being doped up._ Sandy thought to herself. "How much longer?" She cut the nurse off.

"Um-I-maybe another hour..." When she saw Sandy's anger, she spoke up quickly. "Maybe less..."

"Fine. Thanks. Go," Sandy bit out. She let out yet another irritated sigh, and told Barney to keep an eye on him. "I've got to get some fucking caffeine." She muttered to herself as she left the room.

Barney sighed. She was _always_ like that. Office Lehmann may have graduated first in the Police Academy, but she had no patience for incompetence. That was more than likely why he was partnered with her so often. He was about to catch a nap to await her return when he heard a grunt.

"You awake, bucko?" Barney mumbled, poking the restrained man in the ribs. The poke caused a ripple of tension up and down the other man's body. "Guess that's a yes."

"Shove it, cabrón. Untie me right this... _instant_ and I promise not to castrate you."

"What the hell does cuhbrown mean?"

"Like I'm going to kiss and tell," Sands growled. "Get me the fuck out of this place."

"No can do, bucko. You're committed," Barney gave a toothy grin. It was lost on Sands, however, as he was unable to roll over and look.

"You fucktard," he muttered bitterly.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just... nothing."

Sandy went down the cafeteria, and bought stale coffee from a machine. She took a sip as she walked back to the elevators, and grimaced at the bitterness. She was a black coffee gal, but this stuff tasted like cow piss. She swallowed the scalding sip, and stepped into the elevator.

As she neared the room, she heard muted voices, and hurried in. The sooner she convicted the man of whatever heinous crimes she could, the sooner she could get the hell out of this hospital. It was giving her the creeps.

"Well, well, well... Looks like sleeping beauty decided to wake," she said as she strolled into the room and taking another sip of the cow piss.

"Oh you give your partner entirely too much credit," Sands cocked his head, vaguely recognizing the voice.

Sandy just smiled and ignored the comment. "Hey Sandsy, mind tellin' me what this is?" She jumped straight to the point, anxious to get out of there. Once again the bag of goods was dangled before his face. He had to jerk his head away from the bag bouncing against his nose.

"It looks like oregano. What do you want?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Oregano my ass! What the fuck were you doing with this shit in your car? Or should I ask what you were planning on doing with it?" She lowered the baggie a bit more to where it was once again touching his nose. He sneezed and gave the cop a pointed, one-eyed glare.

"Where do you get the right searching my car without a warrant?"

"Where do you get off attempting to take civilians hostage?" She retorted.

"Well, sugarbutt, that's kinda my job."

She snorted. "Well, looks like you suck at it!" She gestured to the empty bed.

"Well, if you hadn't been blocking my way when I was trying to escape, I might've had a good run at it. As it is, when these starchy bastards decide that they've done enough tests and figure out I'm healthier than the metaphorical horse, I'll mosey on out of this hospital, track Mr. Rainey down and be right back where I started. Cruising down I-95. Going the right way, of course," Sands added.

"That's if you're not convicted..." she trailed off. She wasn't sure of what she would be able to convict him of, but she knew she'd have to think of something.

"Well shit Barney, we didn't get no answers," she said quietly to the other cop. "Let's get outta here." She gave one last glare at Sands, then turned and led the way from the room.

"Hey, whoa, wait a minute! Get a nurse in here and tell her to untie me," Sands demanded at her retreating back. Sandy let out a laugh, and continued supposedly ignoring the man. A few minutes later though, a nurse appeared by his side.

"Miss Lehmann said you requested assistance?"

"Miss Lehmann is a prick, but yes, I did request assistance. I want to be let out. I'm asking as a calm, rational human being. Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry."

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't do that. I was told that under no circumstances are your restraints to be removed until you're released." As she said this, she took a step away from the side of his bed, subtle but definitely noticeable.

"Then get me a fucking doctor, or somebody who's competent enough to realize that I'm fucking FINE."

The young nurse ducked her head. "Yessir, right away sir." She said inwardly cringing at his anger. About 10 minutes later, an older gentleman with graying sideburns strode into the room authoritatively.

"Good afternoon Mr. Sands." He spoke smoothly. "How are you feeling? Any better? You were pretty banged up last night." He gave a warm smile, not at all deterred by the man's furious demeanor.

"Oh don't be such a bucket of fucking sunshine. Tell me what the fuck is wrong with me and send me on my merry way."

"We've been told to keep you here for psychiatric evaluation and our local psychiatrist has already left for the day. Fridays are his half days. So you'll have to remain here until Monday morning when he'll return at 9:00 A.M." he smiled apologetically.

"Psychiatric-! What the hell are you talking about? I already passed a fucking psychiatric evaluation!" Sands struggled to calm down. Now was not the time to freak out. "You're going to let me out of your own volition, or I get to place a phone call. Your choice."

The doctor held up his hands. "There's a phone right there." Before Sands could make a smart remark about being restrained, he continued, "I'll send Betty Sue back in to assist you. Have a good evening Mr. Sands." He nodded his head and left the room before Sands could utter another word. Moments later the young nurse timidly came in.

"You wanted to make a phone call, Mr. Sands?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Are you going to hold the phone up to my ear? Or do I get temporary use of my hands?"

"I can hold the phone up to your ear. Th-they don't want your restraints removed." She eyed his hands at his sides nervously pondering the reasoning behind the restraints. She hadn't been there when he'd fought earlier, but she'd heard about it, and seen the bruise on the janitor's face.

She walked over to stand by his bed, feeling comforted by the fact the he couldn't express his anger with his body. She picked up the receiver of the phone, and waited for further instructions.

"Dial 538-0927. Put the phone beside my head and beat it. I'll give a shout when I need it hung up."

She nodded, and dialed the number. She put the receiver to her ear to make sure it was ringing, only to receive a warning glare from Sands. She swallowed hard, and set the phone on his pillow near his head. She waited until he spoke to someone on the other line then gave her yet another hard stare, before she turned. She nearly tripped over her feet in her haste to get out, she saw something eerie in his eyes, and it unnerved her.

"All right Tom, did you stay home like a good boy?"

"Who is this?"

"Cut the shit, Tommy Boy. You know very well who this is. I've got myself a little predicament."

"Sands!" Tom set down his Corona. "Where the fuck are you man? They've been asking me all these questions. You were supposed to check in last night when you had the guy!"

_How the hell long was I out for?_ Sands wondered mildly. He shook his head as much as he could to clear any stray thoughts out of it.

"I had the guy, then the dumbfucks that run the hospital out here let the little… _biddy_ escape. Not my fault. Now they won't let me do the same." He let out a sharp bark of laughter, "Why, it's almost as if they don't love me. Imagine that! Strange how quickly these things turn on people, hm?"

"No shit." Tom muttered in shock. "So what do you want me to do? What's the plan?"

"Well, you always were a wuss. You want to drop by with your credentials and demand that they let the CIA's most prized and decorated first year officer out of this hell hole, or did you grow some balls while I was gone and want something more daring?"

"Hmm..." Tom mused, "I'll see what I can do. Give me an hour." He replaced the receiver on the base. "Damn rookie's always fucking getting into trouble." He muttered to himself He hefted himself from his recliner, and turned off his big screen TV.

10 minutes later he was in his Ford Ranger heading to the hospital. He formulated his plan as he drove.

Sands sighed, wishing he could just rub his aching wrists and get some blood flowing again. He settled for whistling his request for the nurse to return and hang up to phone.

The nurse shuffled into the room, and without a word replaced the phone.

"Thanks, hon. You're... swell," he grinned at the ceiling. The way he figured it, if the staff already hated him for being a bastard, why not go all the way with a bit of sexual harassment thrown in as well? It wasn't as if he planned on coming back to this place.

Tom sped up the driveway of the hospital, coming to a screeching halt outside the doors. He left his truck parked illegally on the fire lane, as he strode in through the automatic doors. He found the elevators and took them to the third floor. He read the directory inside the elevator that said Level 3: Respiratory and Psychiatric. Tom couldn't help but snort in amusement. He was pretty sure that Sands didn't have respiratory problems, thus meaning he was in the Psych ward. He chuckled as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. He strode down the hall like he was God. He passed the nurses' station, and gave the young nurse with the name tag that read "Betty Sue" a curt nod, and continued on his way despite her cries.

"Sir! Sir, you can't go down that hall!" Betty Sue ran after the tall blonde haired man.

He continued passing the doors, watching the numbers as they increased. Betty Sue finally caught up to him, but didn't know what to do. She couldn't very well grab him and physically stop him from continuing down the corridor, he was twice her size!

"Sir! Please-you're not supposed to be down this wing!" She tried pleading with him some more. She didn't want to lose her job-it was the first true job she'd had and she'd only had it for 3 months.

Tom swung around, and gave her a charming smile. "I'm CIA darlin'. If you don't know what that means, I've got this little badge here that basically says I can do whatever the hell I want!" He clicked his tongue and gave her a wink, before turning to go into Sands' room.

Sands heard the commotion outside before he saw the great shadow loom into the room out of the corner of his eye.

"I didn't order a pizza."

Tom was standing over him in a second, biting back the laughter at seeing the rookie strapped down like a psycho.

"Well that's good, 'cause I didn't bring no pizza." He grinned at his partner of 9 months.

Sands nodded, a great, fine smile plastered on his face. "I forgot my ID card. They found the one that said 'Norman Bates' instead."

"Tsk tsk. Whatever would you do without me?" He shook his head. Then he turned to nurse who'd followed him into the room. "If you'd be so kind..." He nodded his head toward the restraints that held Sands to the bed. Betty just looked at him wide eyed.

"I-I can't. They said under no circumstances-"

Tom was getting annoyed with this blubbery little child. "Well this ain't no circumstance darlin'," he grinned cheekily. "If you don't get these restraints off my partner here, I'll be forced to report you to not only the Director of the CIA who reports directly to the Secretary of Defense." His face was dead serious, as he watched her eyes widen in fear. She dully nodded her head, and went to unstrap Sands. Tom grinned at Sands from behind her. It was unfortunate that Sands' attention was elsewhere.

"Easy, easy down there. That's some powerful equipment that I don't want damaged-"

Betty made a little noise of surprise, and immediately stopped removing the restraints to look nervously at Sands. "I-I didn't mean..."

"I understand, chica." Sands immediately extracted his hands from the leather bindings and began rubbing furiously. "You're madly in love with me. Happens all the time. Just keep telling yourself it'd never work out," he smirked. She just stared at him for a minute, until she was reminded of the job at hand by Tom clearing his throat.

"We don't have all day. Or night as it were..." He said looking at the setting sun in the window.

A couple minutes later, Betty finished with the restraints, and stepped back. She stood there for a few minutes watching as Sands rubbed and stretched his aching joints. Tom cleared his throat again, breaking her out of her reverie.

"Thank you Betty. You can go now," he said curtly.

Betty nodded, and dashed out of the room as quickly as she could without seeming too conspicuous.

"Well done, by jove," Sands nodded sharply. There was a silly grin on his face. "Too bad I'd never make it with a British accent."

Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes. Sometimes he felt too old. He was a good 10 years Sands' senior-which wasn't saying all that much-but he had trouble keeping up with the man.

"Are we ready to get out of here?" he asked, anxious to get back home to his beer and baseball.

"Sure, govenor. You'll be driving."

As Sands stood up, Tom eyed the gray hospital gown. "You'll need to be changing first hombre."

"Why? Does it make my ass look big?"

Tom sighed in exasperation. "Just put your fucking clothes on," he said tiredly.

"You'd be loopy too if you were doped to the gills," Sands answered sourly. He moved away from the bed and swayed on his feet. The hours of rest hadn't agreed with his tense muscles which were now weaker than ever. He cursed under his breath and grabbed the gurney sheets to steady himself. "Make yourself useful, Tommy Boy, grab my stuff."

Tom nodded, and reached into the closet and retrieved Sands' clothes. He tossed them onto the bed and turned to look out the window to give Sands privacy.

"Shit."

He turned to see how far Sands had progressed and was met with a very pale ass. "Shit!" he said a little louder and turned quickly back to the window to watch what was going on 3 stories below.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad, is it?" Sands was trying to tug his clothes onto the appropriate body parts, but things weren't really working. Grumbling and snapping weren't helping the problem and damned if he was going to ask for help again. Not from Tom. "Oh hell, can't I just go like this?"

He was still stark naked. Tom turned around assuming Sands was at least semi-clothed by then.

"Fuckin' hell man!" he yelled. "Get yourself put together! We've got company." He continued to watch from the window as a fat cop inspected Tom's bright blue Ford Ranger and a female cop stomped into the hospital clearly having a bad day. Sands had to practically drag himself around the bed to the window. Once there, he had no trouble spotting what was causing Tom so much trouble.

"All the more reason to be naked. She just wanted to get in my pants anyway," Sands frowned.

Tom shook his head at Sands arrogance. "Come on Sands get dressed-quit fooling around!"

Sands always got him into deep shit-even though he always got him out-but that wasn't the point. He shouldn't even be in deep shit to begin with, but that was part of being Sands' partner. The man threw shapes, watched them catch 'em. He set them up, and watched them fall. To quote Sands, he was "Livin' la vida loca."

"Well Christ, Agent McCarthy, did you forget to take your Centrum Silver today or what? If you'd quite dicking around, maybe you'd realize that-"

The door slammed open.

"Cover that shit up! I don't want to see that!" Sandy grimaced in disgust upon seeing Sands standing at the window in his birthday suit. She had her gun out and pointed at his lower torso where her eyes were undoubtedly trained. "And just where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Out. Where are you going?" Sands cocked an eyebrow.

"Nowhere. And neither are you. You've got an appointment with the local shrink Monday morning."

Tom couldn't help but snort, but was quickly silenced by a look from Sands.

"Really? Well you can tell the good doctor that I'm not going to be there. And since I'm going to have to assume that you're the one that put this hospital up to it, why don't you just give the doc a big old kiss for me. Would you?"

"I can only imagine giving Dr. House a kiss," she muttered to herself. "You most certainly are going to be here _Agent_ Sands! Just how do you plan on 'escaping?'" She cocked the gun and aimed it suggestively lower. "Wouldn't want to lose any vital organs now would we?" She gave him a self satisfied grin.

Sands felt his mouth creep into a half smile as life stirred below. He wasn't much for modesty to begin with, and this cop was sure being playful.

"You're a feisty niña, I'll give you that much. But golly, you're just giving me all kinds of wonderful ideas. Dr. House might have to wait until I wear myself out. Or would he enjoy taking notes on that kind of display? It still stands that I've already gotten my psych eval by the best in the country. The Company only wants the brightest and... most stable… in its workforce. I'm in top mental shape if you must know, if a bit of a weirdo."

"Get over yourself you worthless prick! I-"

She was cut off by Tom's smooth voice. "Ma'am, I don't believe we've met.I'm Special Agent Tom McCarthy, United States Central Intelligence Agency, and this man is erm..." He looked at Sands and stepped closer to Sandy so only could hear his whispers. "He's a wee bit psycho as you've noticed, and he's under my supervision. He managed to break out of my barn yesterday afternoon, and decided he'd play CIA. You see, he's read about Mr. Rainey and the suspicion, so he thought that since we were so near, he'd take the situation into his own hands-so to speak." He gave Sandy his most charming smile. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you, but I do need to take him in to Headquarters, and they're mighty impatient," he gave her a wink.

Sandy's eyes narrowed, not buying the story in the least. Before she could voice her opinion, a badge was thrust under her nose. She quickly studied it and was disappointed to see that indeed Tom was a member of the CIA. Tom gave her another winning smile and ushered her out of the room.

"Now if you'd be so kind as to wait and escort us out of the building. It would be greatly appreciated." He shut the door in her face and turned to face Sands, grinning broadly.

"What'd you tell her?" Sands asked, more than a little suspicious.

Tom chuckled. "Oh nothing really except that you're just a psycho that likes to play CIA." He gave Sands a broad grin.

"Oh," Sands frowned. "I'm not?"

"Heh, heh, heh." he chuckled again. "Oh Sands, would you just get dressed?" He said lightly.

"I can try, but I'm not promising a hell of a lot."

Sands began working his way back to the pile of clothes. The standing up had been somewhat beneficial and he could feel more than just the tingle of pins and needles in his extremities. His movements were still slow and drawn out, but they were more effective than his earlier ones.

The cotton boxers were first, then the black jeans and the t-shirt with the line "Kiss me, Ah'm a hick." He decided to forgo the boots; it'd be too much effort to bend over to lace the bastards up. The belt he slung over his shoulder, even as he withdrew the Glock and stuffed it into his pants.

"I want to be able to whip the fuckmook who asks why I'm not wearing shoes," Sands answered the unasked question. Tom just shook his head, and opened the door to allow Sands to go out first. Sandy stood outside the door and glared at Sands as he hobbled through the doorway. He smiled jauntily and flicked her a salute before continuing on his way.

"Asshole." She muttered under her breath.

"Ah, ah, ah..." Tom stepped through the door and gave her a look. "Trust me, you don't want to fuck with a psycho like him."

"You trust me; he's already been fucked way too much for his own good." She bit back, following him down the hall. She didn't like either of the men, but had come to some sort of silent agreement with Tom. He was at least civil to her.

Tom pulled out his pack of cigarettes, and tapped the pack absentmindedly while waiting for the elevator. It was a habit he'd formed, much like Sands' habit of fiddling with his Zippo.

When the elevator reached the floor, the bell "tinged," and the doors slid open. A sweaty pig of a cop came rushing out, nearly barreling over Sands. He didn't have time to grunt as his old pal Barney the cop came to a stop on his foot. He bit his lip to keep from yelping and had to grab onto the bar at the back of the elevator to prevent a fall.

"Officer Lehmann, there's an emergency!"

"Get off my foot," Sands ground out.

"Excuse me?" Barney turned to the pale man.

"Get off my foot before I shoot your leg off."

Barney retreated, hurt in his eyes. Sands sincerely hoped nobody could see him shake from the exertion. That would be bad.

Sandy rolled her eyes at the exchange between the other cop and Sands. She pushed her way through the two men before her, pushing especially hard on Sands.

"What's the problem Barney?" She asked with exasperation. He had a tendency to blow things out of proportion.

"There's a robbery downtown and we need as many people on it as we can spare!"

Sandy's eyebrows furrowed. "A robbery? For crying out loud!" She turned and addressed Tom, glancing at Sands. "Looks like you'll have to do without that escort gentlemen," she said and stepped into the elevator. "Oh and Mr. McCarthy. Next time, use the parking lot."

"Sure thing Miss Lehmann." He clicked his tongue and gave her a wink. "We'll just take the next one," he said, pushing the button to close the elevator doors. "Have a good night officers." He addressed the cops jovially as the doors slid shut.

As soon as the doors were closed, Sands allowed himself to sink slowly to the floor of the elevator. Barney could really hurt a person, even when he wasn't trying. Sands was almost willing to guess his foot was broken. But he'd spent more than enough time in this hospital to want to undergo any more tests. He had to get out now. He didn't give a thought to the man standing beside him.

"Hey! Sands...Yoohoo!" Tom waved his hand in front of the man slumped on the floor below him. "Yo! You ok, man?"

"I don't let my guard down for just anyone, Tommy Boy. Either shoot me in the back of the head now or keep quiet," Sands muttered. Tom raised his hand in a gesture of surrender, just as the bell "tinged" and the doors slid open.

"Think you can make it to my truck?" He smirked as he stepped out of the elevator. The Ranger was quite visible through the front doors of the hospital. Sands picked himself up and steadied himself on the bar again. He glanced at the truck outside, then the grinning face of his partner.

"Just because I'm in trouble doesn't mean you're allowed to forget how to park. Or do you just love me that much?"

"Is there a problem with my parking? Does it not meet to your standards?" Tom questioned. "You probably would've driven right through the fucking doors and parked here in the lobby, am I right? I was in a hurry."

"You know, that driving into the lobby sounds like fun-"

"Don't even think about it. The less attention drawn to you, the better off we are," Tom said as they walked through the automatic doors.

They were met with a blast of cold air, and he couldn't help but hug his body attempting to stay warm the few feet to his truck. He unlocked Sands' door, then went around to the driver's side and slid in. He started the truck, and cranked on the heater.

Their breath was immediately condensing into the familiar fog of a winter day. Sands was convinced the soles of his feet had frozen to the black top and his attempt to walk had ripped them clean off. The not wearing boots might have been a bad idea after all.

"Next time I'm being an ass, please, for my sake, tell me to swallow my fucking pride," Sands groaned. He shivered, trying to warm himself up in front of the heater and rub his bare arms for extra heat.

"With pleasure," Tom said as he put the truck in gear and pulled out of the hospital drive.

"You wanna crash at my place tonight?" Tom extended an invitation. "I have that new big screen, and a 12 pack of Corona." He peered through the windshield looking both ways before pulling out into the early evening traffic. He glanced at Sands to gauge his reaction to the invite.

"Corona? Who the hell drinks Corona anymore?" Sands shook his head. "Just tell me it has heat."

"Yeah it has heat, dimwit!" he chuckled. "I take that as a yes then?"

"Drive faster."

"Maybe if you'd quit breathing so fucking hard I could see where the hell I was driving!" Tom retorted.

Sands glared at Tom. He proceeded to place his aching feet on the edge of the truck seat and wrapped his arms around his knees. Still watching Tom, he began to breathe into his little cavity of warmth to keep the fog out of Tom's line of sight.

"Better?" he asked with a roll of his eyes. It was muffled, but understandable. Tom did little than grunt, although his foot got quite a bit heavier on the gas.

**Author Thanks: Neon Daisies:** A cameo now? Well, we'll have to do some high end consulting and see if impossible ends can, in fact, meet, but I'm pretty sure we can get you a role in here somewhere. ;-) Oh, and there's definitely more Mort torture ahead. Couldn't stop that for anything. **Merrie:** We've got more. Like now. Poor SJ's car. pats it **Depplove:** Welcome to the JA Response Club, DL! It's always good to know Sands is evil and maniacal enough, even as a rookie. **Sandswich:** Any time, chica! Laughter is better than any cough medicine I've tasted.


	3. Let's Spend the Night Together

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating:** R

**Summary: **The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer: **Nope, still don't own Mort or Sands. This is going to be a depressing evening.

**Let's Spend the Night Together**

They reached Tom's small house in just under 45 minutes. Tom went straight for the kitchen to grab a beer. "Want anything?" He called out sticking his head outside the fridge.

"Tequila?" Sands asked hopefully.

Tom sighed as he shut the refrigerator door. He set his Corona on the counter and dropped to his knees in front of the liquor cabinet. He dug around for a few minutes, making tons of noises as glass bottles knocked against other glass bottles.

Sands took the time to hop-literally-to the couch in hopes of relieving the acute pain in his feet. _Damn Maine and its fucking winter. Damn CIA sending me to this fucking wasteland. Damn Mort Rainey for wanting to live in this backwater hellhole._

"You don't have a bucket of warm water either, do you?"

Tom lifted his head when he heard Sands voice, effectively beaning himself on the bottom of the cabinet. "Shit!" he exclaimed rubbing his head. At least he'd come out with a small bottle of tequila-not that Sands needed any more than that. He pushed up to his feet, and set bottle of tequila next to his Corona, and bent over to fish under the sink for a bucket. "I fucking let him run all over me… Give in too fucking much…" He muttered to himself as he filled a bucket with scalding water. "Teach that motherfucker to be so fucking demanding…" He continued his mutterings until he turned off the faucet.

Tom somehow managed to make only one trip by sticking the Corona in one of his trouser pockets, the tequila in the other, and, very, very carefully, carrying the bucket of hot water with both of his hands. He set the bucket down before Sands, and fished out the tequila. Then he plopped down in his recliner, thankful that the bastard had at least taken the couch and not his recliner. He nursed his beer, awaiting the show that would soon come.

The TV glowed and flickered, but Sands paid it no attention. He was testing the water in the bucket, knowing basic frostbite first aid dictated that under no circumstances should the skin be immersed in HOT or COLD water. The water in the bucket was HOT. Sands sighed and uncapped the tequila instead hoping to dull the pain before he did something stupid. A couple of pulls later, he heard the Spongebob Squarepants theme song and he had officially lost the feeling in his feet. Taking the chance, he stuck one foot in, then the other. There didn't seem to be any ill effects just yet, only the definite numbness that came with freezing temperatures.

_Shit._ Tom thought in disappointment, watching Sands' careful testing of the water. He apparently wasn't one to be fooled easily. _Oh well... _Tom thought. He'd tried. There was nothing more he could do.

5 hours and 7 Coronas later, Tom was really feeling the alcohol. He leaned back in the recliner and his eyes drifted shut. The empty bottle in his hand slipped to the floor with a thud and soon, Tom's gentle snoring filled the room. It almost overpowered the TV.

A particularly loud snore startled Sands out of his fifth unsuccessful attempt at sleep. Too tired and (he could admit it) too sore to want to move off the couch, he grabbed his empty tequila and chucked it gently at the chair Tom was parked in.

With a loud snort, Tom woke and looked around startled. "Wha? Whassa matter?" He slurred. He frowned when he spotted the bottle that'd hit him, and tried his best to glare at Sands, although his eyes were crossing more than anything.

"Go to bed, you dink. You're keeping me up," Sands snarled.

"Fuck you!" he slurred, but nonetheless pushed himself to his feet.

He made his way swaying to his bedroom, banging his head on the doorway. He tripped over a rug, but luckily landed halfway on his bed, where he passed out.

Sands winced at the noises and almost conjured up the guilt necessary to check if Tom was okay. When he heard the snores, he rolled his eyes and leaned back on the couch for a light, but full sleep.

XXX

Tom awoke the next morning-er-afternoon, and stumbled into the living room. He had the hangover from hell, but somehow managed to remember his houseguest. Although from the looks of things he no longer had a houseguest.

_How did he…_ His thoughts trailed off as he made his way to the front door as quickly as he could, and flung it wide open wincing in the bright sunlight. He looked unsurprised at the empty driveway.

"Dammit all to hell, Sands!" He grumbled as he shut out the bright sunlight. "Fuck it," he muttered as he made his way back to his bed. "I'm in no position to do anything about it so. Let him make his own fucking bed. I swear though if he so much as scratches my truck it'll be his ass!" He was mumbling into his pillow as he was losing consciousness again.

XXX

Sands had the pedal to the floorboard in a strong show of will. Getting the boots on was a chore and walking more so. He shouldn't have been driving, but he thanked his lucky stars that Tom was girly enough to drive an automatic. He knew where Mort's cabin was and before his gangrened feet gave in to twitching in spasmodic pain, he was crunching up the gravel of the private drive. With the Ford blocking the exit, Mort would have nowhere to run in a vehicle, meaning he wouldn't get very far on foot. Sands grinned at the prospect.

The porch was decorated with a feminine touch, but was getting dusty from a lack of use. _Probably not a fan of the outdoors,_ Sands though idly. He steadied himself against the doorframe and managed to lever the screen open. Checking one last time to make sure he could get to his gun if he had to, he knocked on the wooden door.

Mort was curled in a ball on his ancient worn couch, wrapped in his ratty old robe. He faintly heard the screen door move, but assumed it was the wind and resumed his slumber. He jumped and fell to the floor with a thud when he heard the sharp raps on the door.

He blinked, and looked at the door as if he could somehow see straight through it. He didn't need to see the man behind it to know from the urgency in the knocks who it was. He nonetheless pushed to his feet, tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. He'd learned not to open the doors, even if you knew who it was.

Sure enough, he saw the set jaw of Sands and the way in which he carried his body. He was pissed. Mort swallowed, and backed away from the door. He turned and looked longingly at the back door. He jumped nearly 3 feet in the air at the next set of rapping.

"Open up, Sleeping Beauty. If you don't mind my being cliché, I've got a hell of a score to settle with you. I'm pissed. You're on my list and we're going to talk, one way or the other."

Mort hesitated only a moment. The man had a gun, and as he'd seen, he wouldn't hesitate to use it. He felt the bump on his head. Sands had no qualms about hurting him. Why on earth would he let a psycho like that near him voluntarily, much less into his cabin? There was no question about it. He wouldn't.

"Get off my property, Shithead!" he shouted, becoming angry himself at the man's threat.

Sands rolled his eyes, shot the lock off the door and shoved it open. "You were saying?"

Mort jumped again at the shot. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He was frozen, his feet rooted to the spot facing the door, as Sands pushed into his cabin. He was no longer as confident as he'd sounded a moment earlier, with a heavy wooden door separating them. He swallowed nervously, and spoke somewhat hoarsely.

"Get out of my house!"

"Fuckmook, I'm CIA! I don't go waving my badge around because I don't like to. It's not classy. You're leaving me no choice but to exert my authority and damn it all, you're not making it fun. Get into the truck, and let's go. I'm not taking you to a fucking prison; I'm taking you to my partner's house. He's… more considerate than I am."

Mort frowned at what Sands was saying. _CIA? What the hell does the CIA want with me? _He eyed the backdoor, then Sands and the gun in his hand.

"Don't you need to have some sort of warrant or something?" Mort asked, still eyeing the back door longingly. As Sands sighed and began to rub his temples, Mort took a chance and dashed for the door.

Sands moved swiftly to center himself in the doorway, making sure that while he couldn't physically fill it, the bulky jacket he'd stolen from Tom would spread outwards nicely to give the impression that he did. This live capture thing was a bitch.

"Stop right there, John Wayne. Do you really want to risk it?"

Mort's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He just glared at Sands for a split second before he turned on his heel and ran again, this time for the back door. When he reached it, he flung it open and stumbled outside, blinking in the bright sunlight that was filtering through the heavy clouds.

Sands followed, fed up with this pitiful game. Fuck the Company. He drew his Glock and fired. The sound echoed off the wall of trees, startling a flock of birds into flight. Mort Rainey collapsed, blood blossoming from the hole in his shoulder. Sands knelt beside the man, a quirky smile on his face.

"Look what you made me do, John Wayne. Didn't I tell you that you didn't want to risk it?"

Mort grimaced in pain. "Fuck you!" he grunted. With his good arm, he grasped something and lifted it, preparing to stab Sands with what turned out to be a tiny gardening spade.

"Owww!" he moaned. Sands had captured his wrist and gave a mighty twist causing Mort to drop the spade.

"Stop fucking with me, John Wayne. _Up_," Sands snarled, no longer in the mood to be compassionate. He yanked on Mort's bad arm which elicited another yowl from the injured man. But it got him up and Sands could drag him to the truck. This time, when he shoved Mort into the seat, he was careful to learn from his earlier mistake. He handcuffed Mort's bad arm, slung the handcuff over the dry-cleaning handle on the ceiling and cuffed Mort's other hand. He grinned, slammed the door and limped to the driver's side.

"If you want doughnuts, we'll go to Dunkin Donuts. No distracting the driver," Sands said sternly as he put the truck in Reverse and backed down the drive. "Oh, and if you absolutely have to kick me, just know that since this isn't my car, I have no problems shooting a hole in your foot and consequentially the undercarriage, savvy?"

Mort just sat there and pouted for the rest of ride.

XXX

"Oh Tommy Boy, I gotcha a present!" Sands called upon entering the house. He heard another hiccupping snore and sighed. He could leave Mort in the truck all day if he had to, but he didn't think Tom would like blood all over the seat. "Tom, don't let the sun burn a hole in your ass. It's two in the afternoon."

Tom moaned and rolled over on his bed. He thought he heard Sands, but wasn't sure. _Oh well… _he thought. _It can wait till morning.._ He rolled over yet again and threw out his arm, smacking the nightstand and knocking a lamp to the floor with a shatter.

"Holy shit!" He sat upright in bed, and looked around blindly. He blinked a couple of times and looked at the mess on the floor and then to his grinning partner in the doorway. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he accused.

"Tom, I'm hurt. Wait another year, then you can blame me for your woes. First, you've got to come help me with this little bastard."

Tom frowned trying to get the meaning behind Sands' words, but it was over his head. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "What bastard? Morton? You got him?" At this, Tom pushed himself up from the bed and swayed where he stood. Once he'd gotten his balance, he followed Sands out of his bedroom.

"Where do you think I was all morning? Or did you not know I was gone? Can't hold your liqueur anymore, can you Tommy Boy?" Sands said slyly.

"Screw you Sands! There better not be one fucking scratch on my truck or it's your hide! Don't you ever-" He stopped abruptly upon stepping outside to his truck. He saw a head with mass of blonde hair and blood oozing slowly out of one of his shoulders. "What the fuck man? What did you do to him?" He turned to glare at Sands. "Shit...I'm not ready for this now… I'm still fucked up…" He shook his head again in yet another vain attempt to clear it.

"Tom, you dick, I caught Mort Rainey. He is in your truck and when we sew him up, he'll be good as new. Are you really going to be a pussy and give into a hangover you shouldn't even have?" Sands snapped.

_Shit, he's right, _Tom thought. He sighed and then spoke as evenly as he could. "Get him in the house, just watch the blood, ok?" He couldn't look at Mort; he had a queasy stomach from the alcohol that remained in his stomach.

Mort watched the exchange between Sands and the tall blonde man curiously. He seemed like the exact opposite to work with such the conniving bastard Sands was. He was curious about their relationship.

Sands' head sunk at Tom's display of weakness. Didn't the asshole know he couldn't walk?

_Probably not because you don't tell him. _

Sands told whatever had inspired that thought where to shove itself and turned a cold glare at the captive in the Ranger. "Are you going to cooperate or do I have to shoot you again?"

Mort just muttered, giving in and starting to move out of the truck, but he couldn't get far because of the handcuffs. After making several blatant gestures at the cuffs, he was forced to speak to Sands.

"Are you going to take these fucking things off? I thought I wasn't going to prison," he glared at Sands, cursing at him under his breath. Before Sands could make a retort, Tom had managed to sober up a bit and stepped forward.

"Shut it smartass," he muttered as he went to uncuff Mort. When he saw the tiny puddle of blood-not much bigger than a silver dollar-on the seat of his truck, he momentarily forgot about Mort and the cuffs.

"What the fuck, Sands! There's fucking blood all over my seats!" He turned and stalked toward Sands, staring down at him. Sands' head came up to his nose, so Tom was forced to bend a bit to stare Sands straight in the eyes. "I hope you know you're paying for a new bench!" He turned around in a bit of a huff glaring at the bright stain on his truck. "Dammit it all to hell! Sands can you do nothing according to the Company?"

Under ordinary circumstances, this would have set Sands off. He glanced at Mort who had one hand free and was free to escape at any time, and returned his gaze to the bleary-eyed Tom.

"When you get the time to take your head out of your ass, then you can talk to me. Now, you're going to help me clean this guy up. If you're going to wave the rookie card, I'll save you the trouble and tell you to go fuck yourself right now. I'd rather clean him up myself. Are you an Ameri-CAN or an Ameri-CAN'T?"

Throughout the monologue, he never once raised his voice, holding even Mort in morbid fascination. He just stared at Sands in utter disbelief, rooted to the spot, not that he would be able to escape, what with 2 CIA agents mere feet from him. He was almost laughing, not from amusement, but from hysterics.

Tom stood there and gaped at Sands. When he was able to speak again, he very boldly said, "I'm an Ameri-Can, and you're an Ameri-Can't follow fucking regulations." He muttered the last part under his breath so only Mort was able to hear, as he uncuffed Mort's other hand staring disdainfully at the spot of blood. Mort did laugh at what Tom said, but one look from Sands silenced him. Tom hefted him out of the truck, and shoved him not roughly forward towards his house. Tom muttered to himself as he followed Mort inside.

"One big happy fucking family..."

Sands didn't care that Tom was pissed off. He had to get off his fucking feet right. This. Instant. Short of walking on his hands, Sands was going to have to hop again.

_That's you fuckwad, the fucking Easter Bunny._

"Hop, hop, hopping down Easter fucking Lane," Sands sighed, slamming the door to the truck closed. Tom knew gun wounds; he'd be able to start without Sands. This gave him leeway to carefully pick his way back to the entrance of Tom's cabin, the last of his adrenalin rush slipping away with his patience.

He got inside without too much trouble and saw Mort seated at the table. He could see the faint chain of silver linking the writer to the heavy-duty chair he was sitting on. Tom was grumbling as he worked to get the water to the right temperature to clean the blood off Mort's shoulder.

"You can stop being a pansy any time you know," Sands said solemnly, dropping into the chair beside Mort.

"Fuck you!" Mort said halfheartedly. "I didn't do anything! You freakin' shot me!" He sighed, part from the pain and the other part from exhaustion. When was this nightmare ever going to end? Tom plopped down on Mort's other side, and examined the wound through Mort's thin t-shirt.

"Well this shirt is definitely gonna have to go." He spoke aloud, more to himself than to anyone else. Since it would be more comfortable for him to just cut the darn thing off, he went to find some scissors. It wasn't as if the blood soaked shirt would be any good afterwards anyways.

"I wasn't talking to you, Sunshine, I was talking to Mr. Hospitality over there," Sands rolled his eyes at the unnecessary hostility. "And I only shot you because you tried to run for the first... no. Second? Nuh uh. _Third_ time. If you weren't such a pain in the ass, I'd give you a fucking merit badge or something."

Mort glared at Sands and was about to respond when he had to hiss in pain as the cold blade of the scissors touched the open wound as Tom was cut away the fabric.

"I'm not a fucking pansy," Tom protested as he cut the shirt off Mort a bit more vigorously than needed. He was having trouble concentrating, although at least he could see straight. Well… sort of.

Mort saw the occasional crossing of Tom's eyes and felt a little uneasy about having him clean his wound. Sure Sands was the one who'd made the wound, but he certainly seemed more capable of tending to it than his hung over senior partner.

"Okay, you're not a pansy, so what are you? A hell of a lot more competent than me, right, Tommy Boy? Because I can't follow regulations, was that it?" Sands' eyes were dark.

"Just shut the fuck up Sands!" he slurred a little, and his hand with the needle slipped. "Whoops..." He almost laughed but the withering look Mort gave him made him think better of it.

"Watch what you're doing asshole."

"Hey now, I'm doing you a favor darlin'." He gave Mort a wink, the whole side of his face scrunching up. He finally finished stitching Mort up, and stood up wearily. He went to the fridge and reached in for a Corona.

"Hey!" He lifted his head out and glared at Sands. "Where's my fucking beer?"

Sands smiled slightly, "You drank it, Charming. What do you think?"

"Goddamnit! Do you have to be such an asshole?" he asked as he slammed the refrigerator shut. He sighed in irritation and dug in his pockets for his keys only to remember that Sands had them. "Would you mind giving me my keys?"

"Now why should I do that, amigo? You're clearly still in the midst of a hangover and I really don't think you should have anymore alcohol."

"Well I don't give one flying fuck what you think! It's my truck! Now give me my keys!" He stalked over to the table and stood with his hand stuck out below Sands' nose.

"No."

_Oh, good one! You sure showed him, _the voice laughed.

Tom was getting really put out by the showy agent's refusal to give him his keys. He went around the table and shoved in his chair-which was opposite Sands' under the table-as hard as he could. It scraped across the linoleum making a loud screeching sound and connected hard with a heavy object which released a grunt. Tom chuckled as he saw Sands attempting to hide the pain as he went over to his liquor cabinet and flung open the doors looking for anything of interest.

Sands let the curse on the tip of his tongue get exhaled violently from his nose. The next few shuddering breaths were challenges as he oh so slowly moved his abused foot-the selfsame foot that had been mashed by the corpulent bastard of a cop-under his own chair.

"That… was low," he finally ground out. Mort snorted, and Tom just shrugged his shoulders continuing his hunt through the liquor cabinet.

"Well you do deserve it, you know?" Mort mused aloud, looking Sands' pain filled face. He almost-_almost_ felt compassion for the man. He was a pretty tough cookie, and with the chair hitting his foot… he must've had some pretty mean run ins with it.

"Thanks for you valuable input, John Wayne. I'll be able to sleep better tonight. Truly…"

Sands was still trying to regulate the tachycardia brought on by the repeated traumas put on him by the world. His breathing was almost normal, but his adrenal glands were still in overdrive. He couldn't very well shoot Tom for getting sloshed, no matter how much he wanted to. There'd be no way in hell Tom would be nice after something like that. Not that he was an overly joyous drunk either.

"Find anything, Tommy Boy?"

Tom shut the doors of liqueur cabinet and swept past the table, several bottles in his hands. In a peace offering of sorts, he stopped and spoke to Sands. "If you can make it into the living room, I've found another bottle of tequila." He looked down his nose at Mort. "I take it you're a Jack Daniels boy?" He asked holding up yet another bottle.

Mort eyed the bottle yearningly. "As a matter of fact-"

Tom gave a lopsided grin, and took a swig from one of the bottles in his arms. "Well, then I suspect you're gonna' have to get him to help you into the living room. My hands are full enough as it is," he grinned at the two of them before turning on his heel with the alcohol and retreated into the living room where the sounds of cartoons could soon be heard.

"I don't suppose you want to uncuff me now do you?" Mort looked at Sands. _"I surely do need some Jack Daniels if you'd be so kind..."_ Shooter held up Mort's wrist with the cuff on it. Shooter gave Sands a somewhat platonic smile.

"Fuck no. Tom's being a dumb ass again. Don't go anywhere." Sands spared a tired smile before hoisting himself out of the chair…

… and nearly fell on his face.

He caught himself on the table, but was beginning to suspect that he could very well be plagued with frostbite. There was only one cure that he knew, and it was parked in the next room. His right foot was near useless and his left was getting there. Gimping around wasn't going to work so well, he needed something to help his balance. He spied a rolling TV tray and a walking stick.

"Oh hell," he swore before reaching lamely for whichever one was closest. It was the walking stick. "Never pegged you as a nature buff, Tom," he murmured. It took the better part of a minute to finally reach Tom in the armchair; sweat beaded his face and the look of concentration was enough to burn holes into the back of the LaZboy.

"Gimme the damn alcohol."

Tom lay back in his recliner nursing his bottle of amaretto and when he heard Sands' heavy footsteps along with what sounded like his ancient rain stick, a broad alcohol induced grin spread across his face. Sounded as if he couldn't hold out any longer.

"Where's the bastard?" he asked holding up the bottle of tequila just out of Sands' reach. He didn't want Mort to be the only one out of the three of them stone sober.

"Still in his seat, now gimme the fucking alcohol. Both of em," Sands growled, pain evident in his voice.

"Alright, I suppose one of us should have our wits about us, not that-" He stopped when there was a loud crash from the kitchen and a muttered curse.

Mort had been trying to loosen the cuffs on his wrists, but to no avail. If anything they'd gotten tighter. They were cutting into his wrists painfully. The more he struggled, the dizzier from pain he got; not to mention that his shoulder felt like it was on fire and numb, all at the same sign. Definitely not a good sign, he thought to himself.

He decided he'd try a new tactic-standing up with his wrists attached to the chair. A lot of good that did him, he'd ended up on his back still sitting in the chair. Sharp pains shot through his shoulder and he could see, as well as feel the blood starting to soak through the bandage on his bare shoulder.

"Shit!" he cursed, his head thrashing as the burning intensified.

Sands swore, snatched the Jack Daniels and tequila and began hobbling back to the kitchen. Mort looked a little dazed from the pain and damned if Sands eyes weren't beginning to cross as well.

"Pendejo! I said don't move!" Sands snarled. "I shouldn't even let you have this anymore."

Sands all but slammed the whisky down before falling into his chair himself. Turning to look at the curious expression on Tom's face, Sands flipped him the finger. "You haven't got a straw, have you?"

Tom frowned and shook his head in answer to Sands' question. "You just gonna leave him on the floor like that?" he asked, stupefied. Mort looked at Sands questioningly as well, his eyes sweeping to the bottle of Jack Daniels and looking at it yearningly.

Sands blinked. "You think I'm getting up again?"

Mort frowned and glared at him. "How the hell am I supposed to drink that lying down here?"

"How the hell were you gonna drink it handcuffed?" Sands sneered before tearing into his own alcoholic beverage.

Mort scrunched up his face with anger and prepared himself for the pain that would come. He took a deep breath, and then used all his energy to flip his chair sideways where he was lying on his side. He let out yelp of pain, but nonetheless continued with his plan. His feet lashed out in search for their target: Sands' feet. Little did he realize that he was just inches short from his target.

From the next room over, Tom began laughing hysterically. "You two are crazy!" He laughed some more, "You're going at it like cocks in a cock fight!" He laughed so hard he began to choke on his drink.

Sands scooted away from Mort by pushing backwards on the table. This caused it to rattle and effectively tip the tequila over. Sands cried out, leaping to his feet to right the fallen bottle only to fall to his knees in pain with a hiss. When he stopped seeing sparks, he turned an acid glare to the smug Mort Rainey.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your brain?"

_You mean aside from the fact that he's wanted by the government? That's he's not yours to kill?_

"Yeah, besides that."

Mort was about to answer when Sands made the next comment. He made a face in confusion. "Huh?" he asked, not sure if Sands had answered his own question, or if he was still waiting for an answer from him.

Tom was in the other room oblivious to the events in the kitchen. He was trying to suck air into his heaving lungs, while trying to hold the liquor down. Sands felt his control beginning to crumble. His partner was choking on something idiotic and Mort was trying to escape and he couldn't move and worst of all, his tequila was almost gone.

_Poor baby._

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit. TOM! What the fuck are you doing horsing around with dangerous substances? Get your ass in here and stop choking!" Sands yelled, his glare fixed on Mort.

"Fuck you!" Tom managed to gasp out, but nonetheless stumbled to his feet and into the kitchen where Mort was on his side in the chair scooting across the linoleum as fast as possible. "Stop moving!" Tom said somewhat between a plea and a demand.

Mort did stop, if only for an instant, and cackled. _"Whatever would we be wantin' to do that for Mister Tom?"_ Then he continued to scoot across the floor at a little faster speed.

Tom cursed again and stumbled towards Mort, having trouble walking straight. "Dammit! Sands get off your lazy ass and help me!" He finally reached Mort, and grabbed the back of the chair. He was having trouble holding it against Mort's pulling in his state.

Sands saw the danger and began crawling on his hands and knees to hopefully catch up before Mort scooted away for good. He had the gun out of its holster again, and had it pointed at the side of Mort's foot.

"Want to know what it feels like to have someone crush your foot to bits, have it frozen to concrete, walk on it, and then have some asshole mash a chair into it? I bet I can imitate that pretty well. I'm in the know," Sands nodded.

Mort froze and twisted his head around to look Sands in the face, wincing. He didn't have to see the man's face to know from experience that the man wasn't screwing around. Mort's eyes were full of fear and expectation. They blinked rapidly a few times, then a broad grin spread across his face.

"Ah, Mister Sands, we meet again...I s'pose this here wound is thanks ta you?" He made a tsking sound. "I done tole you-you don' wanna mess with Morty," he shook his head. "That boy's a crazy one." He gave Sands yet another wide grin, and then blinked several more times. Mort stared into Sands' face blankly.

Tom had backed away when Sands had come forward Glock first, and was now staring wide-eyed at the man cuffed to his dining room chair. "What the fuck was that?" He asked, looking from Sands to Mort.

"Nothing to worry about, Tommy Boy. Just Mr. Shooter, giving me a friendly warning is all," Sands shrugged. "Now you. Do you want to get up, John Wayne?"

Tom just shook his head which he immediately regretted. He stumbled back into the living room and took another hearty swig of his alcohol.

Mort stuck his nose up at Sands. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?" He shook his hands, causing the cuffs to jingle a bit. "I'm a little tied down at the moment." His eyes narrowed.

"Don't look at me John Wayne, he was supposed to do it," Sands frowned as Tom high tailed it back to the living room and his cozy couch.

"What? Who was supposed to do what?" Mort was utterly confused as he watched Sands annoyance as Tom went back to his drink.

"Okay, I count three people in this here cabin. One of them's you. We've already established that you can't get up by yourself. One of them's me. I can't stand up. There's a pretty good chance I can't push you up either. Number three just went back to take a nap. As far as I'm concerned. You're fucked."

Mort sighed in annoyance himself. "Well fine then, get lost and leave me to be 'fucked' by myself!" He glared at Sands, thoroughly pissed about the position he was in. Sands was supposed to be the big, bad ass agent that had no pain.

"Yeah, like I'm going to give you the pleasure of watching me crawl," Sands rolled his eyes and propped himself up against the back of a chair. "You don't know any good frostbite remedies, do you?"

Mort just snorted. "Well… if you stick it up your-"

"Very original. Good show. Why, I bet even Tommy Boy could think of that one. Golly, what is with everybody and foul language these days? It's fucking uncouth."

Mort just rolled his eyes, and glanced down at his shoulder which was once again bleeding profusely, there was a small puddle on the floor. He sighed. "Would you please just uncuff me, and let me get up? I promise I'll just upright the chair." Mort was to the point where he would beg to be up, taking the pressure off of the wound.

"Do you really think I'm that stupid? Besides, it's your fault you're down here in the first place. And it's your fault I'm down here," Sands snorted.

"Arrrgghh!" Mort cried out in frustration. He was in so much pain and so angry… He decided he'd take his chances and kicked at the gun at his foot. He felt it move, and then curled as much as he could into a ball, despite the pain, and squeezed his eyes shut. He was waiting for the bullet that would end his misery, but it never came.

Sands groaned, knowing at least something of the hell Mort was going through. Being shot wasn't a picnic and the strain on the muscle had to be unreal.

"Tom! Get your ass in here and right this bastard before I put him out of his pain!"

Tom grunted, but didn't move.

Mort cracked open an eye, and let out a sigh of relief. He wanted the pain to stop, but he didn't necessarily want to die. Slowly he uncurled, which once again caused strain on the wound making him hiss in pain. He looked over to where Sands was slouched against a chair and watched with shock as he aimed the gun into the living room.

Sands rarely used the sight on the gun anymore, but this was a special occasion. The bottle was dangling out of lax fingers. He had to hit the bottle low enough so it wouldn't explode _everywhere_. Just where Sands wanted it to. Tom snorted again and Sands pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed into the living room and caught the lower half of the bottle. Liqueur and glass sprayed outward, catching the sleeping Tom in the hand.

"Shit!" He leaped from the chair, sobered momentarily. "Goddamn it, Sands!" he shook his hand and dug out tiny splinters of glass. "That fucking hurt!" He whimpered like a child. He stood there and glared at Sands, making sure to stay behind the shield of his recliner. The man was fucking psycho! You don't just go around shooting people or things! "What the hell did you do that for?"

"Your presence is required in the kitchen." Sands' voice was deadly soft. Tom frowned, and hesitantly made his way into the kitchen, to where Mort and Sands sat. He looked down at Mort as if he was just seeing him for the first time.

"What the hell is he trying to pull?" He asked talking over Mort to Sands.

"He's in pain just like the rest of us. You haven't been a very good host, Tommy Boy. Sit him up so he's not lying on his shoulder anymore. Then, you should get in the shower and sober up before I have to resort to something like that again."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Tom muttered, but did as Sands said. He hefted Mort up, and then turned to Sands. "You need some help?" He looked at Sands skeptically, ignoring Mort's moans-attempts at attention for his wound.

"I haven't bothered you enough?" Sands remarked dryly, finally dropping the majority of his serious act.

Tom cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. "Come on cowboy, you need to get off your ass." He bent over, and attempted to heft Sands up. Sands didn't help, but didn't hinder either.

"The chair," he ordered

_Look at you now..._

Tom grunted and half slung, half placed Sands in the chair. Mort was growing impatient, his shoulder was burning more and more, and he was certain he'd torn the stitches.

"Ahem..." He cleared his throat.

Tom turned and glared at Mort. "There a problem?"

"Uh-I think the stitches are torn…" Mort said, his confidence faltering a little, now that Sands was up at the same level as him.

"Well that's just too bad, ain't it?" Tom smirked, "You're just gonna have to hold your horses."

Sands shrugged. "Drag him over and I'll do it. You do need a shower though Tommy Boy. I'm getting drunk off your fumes."

"Screw you Sands!" He said, but went to move Mort. He slid him as roughly as he could, jarring his shoulder more. He ignored his grunts and moans, and stopped him mere inches in front of Sands. Once there, Mort quieted. He wasn't as tough when face to face with the rookie agent.

_How come I don't have that affect?_ Tom thought to himself.

"There ya go Sands, enjoy the bastard," he said as he left the kitchen. Mort avoided Sands' eyes until he heard the spray of the shower. He looked up and spoke solemnly.

"Are you going to stitch me up?"

Sands leaned across the table and started banging it gently to coax the needle and thread closer to his outstretched hand.

"I'm quite capable. Or do you not want me to?"

Mort said nothing, only nodded his head as if defeated.

"Good."

Sands' hand closed on the supplies and he expertly threaded the needle. He grabbed a napkin from the holder and began cleaning off the seeping blood. Tom had put the hydrogen peroxide away, but it wouldn't make much of a difference. It could always be applied afterward. Sands quickly sterilized the needle with his Zippo and set to work sewing Mort up in small, neat stitches. He'd make small peeps every once in awhile, but remained relatively still. When he finished, Sands tore the thread with his teeth and slapped Mort on the back. "You're done, Farmer John. Make sure it doesn't happen again."

Mort gritted his teeth as Sands patted him on the back. He was surprisingly gentle and efficient. He sat there silently for a few minutes before he became uncomfortable, not only with the silence, but with the close proximity of Sands. He shifted as much as possible in the chair, and finally spoke. "Uh...are you going to move?"

Before Sands could reply, a strange sound was heard from the bathroom. It sounded oddly like a dying cow.

"At first I was afraid, I was petrified, kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...And I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong-and I grew strong! I learned how to get along…"

"He still sings?" Sands groaned. By tipping his chair back very gently, he could just reach the silverware draw. He inched it open and took out a steak knife which he promptly threw at the bathroom door. "Sing a little louder, I don't think the neighbors can hear you!"

Mort winced as Sands chucked the knife over his good shoulder. "Hey! That was fucking close!" he complained, frowning at Sands.

Tom jumped when he heard something slice into the door-undoubtedly another of Sands' fits. His singing was cut off abruptly. "Hmm…" he frowned. "Where was I?"

He shrugged. "I'll just start at the chorus." He chuckled before belting out the chorus to Gloria Gaynor's hit. "Go on now go! Walk out the door! Just turn around cause you're not welcome anymore. I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key if I'd known for just one second you'd be back to bother meeeeeee!"

Mort grimaced as Tom attempted to hit the high note.

"I know I should have used the pie server," Sands frowned.

_Get an axe. _

"Can't walk. Sort of sunk before I begin."

_You're such a fucking pessimist._

"I think I'm rather pleasant."

_You might. Who else?_

"I haven't asked anyone recently."

_Certainly didn't ask me._

"Because I know what you'd say."

_Now you do._

"And that's what counts," Sands propped his boots on the table and eased the chair back comfortably.

"What-the-fuck?" Mort spoke it as if it was one syllable. "Who the hell are you talking to?" Mort's eyes were wide with disbelief. Sands was scaring him. He tried to scoot himself back, but he was moving too fast. His eyes grew wide as he felt the chair began to tip back. "Shit! Nooo..." he moaned and thrust out his hands still attached to the back of the chair. There was just enough leeway for him to grasp Sands' jeans before he fell completely backwards again. If he fell again, he would truly be "fucked."

It was unfortunate that Mort and the chair's combined weight was too much for the unprepared Sands. He didn't have time to grab hold of the table before they both crashed to the floor again. Sands had landed on top of Mort, who hadn't let go of his death grip on Sands' pants.

"Goddamn Sam, what the hell was that for!" Sands snarled.

Mort kept his grip on Sands even once they were on the floor. His eyes were wide in terror. He was shocked, he'd been completely unprepared for not only falling, but for the added weight on his torso. He let out a grunt and lifted his legs, kneeing Sands in the ribs. He'd finally released Sands' jeans. Just then, Tom sauntered out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. When he spotted the two sprawled on the floor, his eyes grew wide.

"Hotdamn! If you two wanted my room, I would've been more than obliging..." He said completely serious. "Damn… just please don't do anything pokey here in the kitchen, that's just sick!"

Sands craned his head around and stared at Tom, trying to settle his mind into a rational pattern of thought. He'd lost a minute off his life from the time he threw the knife to the time he was… straddled atop his convict. And on the floor again. Son of a bitch!

"We were ballroom dancing. Between his hellish leading and my lead feet, we were destined for obscurity," Sands murmured to assuage Tom. Although, Sands wasn't entirely sure they hadn't just been ballroom dancing. That was the scary part.

Tom laughed heartily. "Sure ya were buddy. Now if you don't mind, I'll just go get myself dressed for bed." He turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Mort frowned up at Sands. "Now just how do you plan on getting us out of this one?" Mort questioned.

"I'm um... not sure," Sands looked around for some sort of leverage. "I'm pretty sure I can get myself up, but you seem to have developed a habit of screwing yourself over."

One of Mort's eyes twitched, as he was annoyed. He lifted one of his knees and swiftly kneed Sands in the groin. As Sands doubled over, applying more of his weight on him, Mort hissed in pain, but managed to spit out, "Asshole."

Sands hoisted himself up on his pained feet and promptly fell backwards into his chair. At Mort's enraged look, he smirked.

"Not my fault you're in this mess. Not really."

With one last withering look at Sands, Mort gave up the physical fight. He sighed with resignation and laid his head back on the floor. It was throbbing. Within the past few days, his head had really taken a beating-mostly from Sands' Glock. He allowed his eyes to drift shut and was transported back to the previous weeks.

_"I know I can do it, Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. I know that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me." _

His voice was thick with a southern drawl as he whispered those words, yet he was still Mort.

"John Wayne, you been smokin' crack again?" Sands drawled.

Mort's eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at Sands a little dazed. "Wha-huh?" he asked more than a little confused.

"Or have you been doing tea behind my back? Have you been holding out?" Sands leaned forward to eye Mort.

"Actually, I'm more a Mountain Dew person myself. That and Jack Daniels," he said and eyed the bottle that still sat on the table.

"No, you dope, tea! Weed! Mary Jane! Didn't you ever hang with the cool kids in school?"

Mort's face flushed, and he was silent for a moment before he could think up a retort. "I suppose you're very familiar with those substances, eh?" He snickered attempting to be a smartass.

"Maybe," Sands shrugged. He patted his pocket for his tobacco and rolling paper and came up with his prizes. He couldn't remember if Tom was a nonsmoker, but at that point in time, Tom could just go fuck himself. Sands remembered that that limey bitch of a cop had stolen his stash and he needed a smoke.

Upon seeing Sands lighting up, Mort frowned in disappointment. "I don't suppose you didn't salvage any of those cigarettes from your car did you?" he asked hopefully, already knowing the answer.

"Sorry chico. I don't save shitty cigarettes."

Mort sighed in annoyance, and looked up as Tom came in with a cigarette that looked oddly familiar. Mort perked up.

"Hey! Tom-that wouldn't be a Pall Mall would it?" Mort looked at him anxiously.

Tom blew out the smoke. "Naw, I don't buy that cheap crap. This here's Marlboro."

Mort looked at the cigarette longingly. "Say… You think you could spare one?" he asked eagerly, forgetting that he was still lying on the floor. All that mattered was getting a quick nic fix. Tom looked at Sands as if asking permission, and shrugged.

"Y'know, I bet we could get all sorts of confessions out of him if we held back his cig supply," Sands grinned wickedly.

Mort's eyebrows furrowed, and he looked just pitiful. "You-you wouldn't dare?" he pleaded. Not that he had anything to hide, but he was so close to getting a cigarette.

Tom gave a short laugh. "I think you'll get enough answers from him soon enough," he said, through a yawn.

It was well past 10 by then, and it had been quite a stressful night. Tom still felt the alcohol somewhat, and was ready to turn in for the night. "You wanna leave him there?" Tom asked looking at Mort, sympathizing almost.

"Unless you want to give him your recliner for the night. The couch is mine."

Mort looked up at Tom, his eyes oddly resembling that of a puppy's. Tom shuddered from the intensity in which Mort was staring at him. "Yeah, I don't care, just as long as he doesn't get any blood on it." He looked at Sands pointedly. "How we gonna cuff him?"

Sands snorted. "Are you planning on cuffing him to me?"

Tom frowned, seriously considering it. "Well I didn't think you'd mind, seeing as how you two were doing some sort of hanky panky here just a little while ago."

Mort moaned. "Shit. We weren't getting it on! Now, can I please have a cigarette?" His voice was close to a whine.

Sands was about to launch into a furious explanation of why he and Mort were clearly not meant for each other, when he found he had nothing to say. He looked at Mort for help only to find the eyes of a pitiful nicotine addict. He looked back at Tom, his jaw gaping stupidly.

"Me?" When nobody said anything, he shook himself and downed the rest of the minimal tequila.

"Fine." He held his arm out. "But make it fucking quick."

**Author Thanks: depplove: **No, they aren't. That why I'm glad SJ has enough sense to know that. **NeonDaisies: **We got more Mort! And that Mort torture you specified. Tom is a card, we shall be seeing much more of him in the future and a certain cameo is coming up rather soon. **Merrie: **The poor soul being crazier than when they went in? Perhaps we're underestimating SJ's craziness a tad? I do believe you'll find out soon enough though, hm? ;-) **Sandswich: **The way I figure it, I'm thinking early to mid twenties. Still young enough to screw up royally (even though he won't admit it). Tom will be around and hopefully show himself soon.


	4. Deep End

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer**: We collectively own Tom, Sandy and Barney. That's it. Go us.

**Deep End**

Mort woke with a yawn. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see that it was still dark. He raised his arms to stretch, but didn't get very far. A sharp pain shot through one shoulder and a handcuff dug into his other wrist. "Christ, I need to get up." He mumbled to himself, yawning yet again. What time was it anyway? He looked to his right, and saw Sands sprawled out on the couch, half his body dangling over the side.

"Hey! Wake up!" Mort tugged on the cuff, pulling Sands' arm. "Rise and shine asshole!" he muttered under his breath, giving a rather hard jerk. Sands felt his hand twitching and the cold metal of the handcuffs surrounding his wrist. It hadn't been a comfortable night. Whenever either he or Mort had rolled over, the cuff had invariably woken him up. He'd just drifted off again when Mort decided he'd had enough napping. Sands' didn't much care for the spontaneity and stubbornly refused to show any acknowledgement that he was, in fact, awake.

Mort blew out an annoyed breath and gave up tugging on the cuff. Ever so slowly and quietly, he stood up, stretching his aching calves. He crept past Sands' head and went to Sands' feet, stretching his arm out so that he wouldn't tug on the chain linking the cuffs. Sands was lying on his stomach with his arm thrown over the arm of the couch. Mort closed his eyes and counted to three, anticipating the pain in his shoulder that would come.

"One, two..." he whispered. "Three!" He gave one hard jerk on the cuff, causing Sands' arm to bend awkwardly.

Sands had heard the hushed counting and had time to guess that something was amiss. Mort was either planning to choke him to death, or yank his arm out of his socket. So he'd dislocated his arm before it could become an unpleasant issue and subtly shifted his weight to his right knee-in case he had to flip over. The jerk on the handcuff wasn't pleasant, but it hadn't twisted the socket in an overly unnatural manner. Not that dislocation was altogether natural.

"Quit fucking around and lemme sleep," Sands slurred, unconcerned with snapping his shoulder back into place just yet.

"Would you please get up?" Mort gritted out through his teeth. "I've got to pee!" He nearly whimpered. He hated sounding so pitiful, but he really needed to go.

"Piss in a bottle. Or are you a femme in disguise?"

"If I piss anywhere it'll be in your smartass mouth!" Mort hissed his tugging on the cuff resuming in a panic. Sands hadn't lifted his head, but he proceeded to search the coffee table for one of the many discarded Corona bottles lying about.

"Same color and taste, Tom won't know the difference. He'll be fucking ecstatic. Now stop fucking moving and lemme sleep!"

"I'm not going to fucking piss in a bottle!" Mort said disgusted. He began to hop from foot to foot impatiently.

"Then piss in the chair, whadduya want? I'm not getting up."

"Fuck you!" Mort said and swiftly sat down on Sands' feet. At the sound Sands made, Mort managed to grin at his discomfort. "Now will you uncuff me so I can go to the fucking bathroom?"

"How many times do I have to fucking tell you? You're going to escape and I'm going to have to fucking hunt you down again. Fuck no, you're not being uncuffed without an escort!" Sands felt his muscles trying to curl in on themselves. His back was a riot of pain and spasms and his calves were locked in horrific cramps. Even his shoulder was beginning to twinge. With a grunt he snapped it back into place, adding yet another pain to the cacophony of frying nerves.

"Well you're gonna have a mess on your hands then, quite literally..." Mort said his belief that Sands would eventually get up, fading. "Will you please just take me to the bathroom? I'm serious, I've got to fucking pee!"

Just then there was a sharp knock on the door. Mort's heart froze, and he felt his bladder constrict.

"Shit! I've gotta go man!" He stood and went towards the bathroom pulling on Sands' arm. He managed to pull until Sands hit the floor with a thud. There was another sharp rap on the door. Mort looked at it nervously recalling another time he'd answered the door.

_You stole my story..._

His eyes were wide, and he frantically began pulling Sands away from the door, inches at a time. He'd made it to the recliner where he'd slept when Dave Newsome's voice came through the door.

"Officer Tom McCarthy, open up, this is the sheriff!"

Sands closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing thoughts and alternately, slow the frantic Mort. He hooked an elbow onto the arm of the couch and stayed rooted to the spot. He had to wake up. He needed... coffee.

_They could solve world hunger with coffee._

"They sure could."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Mort asked, looking down at Sands as if he was a lunatic. "Well, I guess you have to go wake Tom, eh?" He grinned, "and since the bathroom's on the way-"

"You think the chain's long enough to let me sit outside while you piddle on the seat like a fucking girl?" Sands snapped, disregarding the question. "The sheriff will go away by himself."

"Aaarrrgghh!" Mort cried out loudly. "Dave!" He called as loud as he could. "Daaavvveee! He's got me in here!" He began tugging Sands in the opposite direction now, towards the front door where the sheriff waited. Sands flipped himself over expertly and leaped to his feet in a startling display of athletic ability. He tried not to lean too heavily on Mort's shoulder, but he knew his legs were going to give out at any minute. He had to make this short and sweet.

"That man's out for your blood, Morton. He knows what you did to Amy and Theodore. He can't convict you because he's not bright enough, but he's not going to fucking help you, Morton. He'd rather watch you burn in hell. Now, do you really want to go running to a man who would sooner watch you die than throw you a bone?" Sands hissed into the writer's ear. "It's called common sense, Mort. Use it."

Mort was so surprised by Sands' tactic that he nearly pissed himself. "Sands…please…" His voice was a high pitched squeak, and he had to cross his legs like a girl.

Sands snatched a bottle off the table and relinquished his grip on Mort's shoulder to balance unsteadily on his own. He unzipped his jeans and expertly began to piss in the bottle. When he finished, he set the bottle on the table before flopping onto the couch, a tight smirk on his face. He tilted his head at the bottle, a gesture for Mort to get going.

Mort just stared at Sands in disbelief at his immodesty. He finally realized he wasn't going to be given another option, so he grabbed another bottle and turned his back to Sands before relieving himself. He closed his eyes in long lived release, only to have them fly open in shock.

"Uh…Sands, I need another one, quick!" His voice was full of panic as he felt the one in his hands filling rapidly. His flow wasn't slowing. Sands bit back his laughter, grabbing a fresh bottle-there were quite a lot of them-and nudging it under Mort's elbow. While the bottle escapade was ensuing, the banging on the front door continued, as Dave Newsome refused to give up.

Mort nervously grabbed for the other bottle, paying no mind to the pain that shot through his shoulder. He immediately replaced the other bottle and sighed, happy that he hadn't made much of a mess. Once he was done, he realized he had no free hand and his pants were around his ankles. He looked down at his drawers and the bottles in his hands and swallowed. There was no way of avoiding it; the table was behind him.

Very slowly, Mort turned to face the table-and consequentially Sands-in all his glory. His face was beet red as he set the bottles down quickly, very nearly spilling them. Then he whipped back around and promptly pulled his pants back up.

Sands rolled his eyes. Mort probably hadn't showered in high school gym either. He glanced at his own still unbuttoned pants and shrugged, figuring Tom would have a conniption if he saw the two of them like this. So he zipped himself up and closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic thumping of the sheriff outside. It took 5 minutes for Dave to give up, but he never entered.

_He and Tom have an accord._

"Then he knows about Tom's sobriety."

_It always was suspicious that Tom never got stopped for a DUI._

"Never? Well golly, that is suspicious."

Mort blinked and turned to face Sands once he was put together. "Who the hell are you talking to?" He jumped as he heard a thump outside-it was too close to home for him. "What the hell? Who are you talking to?" He said loudly when Sands didn't answer. Mort was trying to block out the memories that were surfacing.

_You're being bugged._

"Huh?"

_Someone's requesting your presence of mind._

"Who would want my presence of mind?"

_John Wayne?_

"The Duke? Alive?" Sands eyes had become distant and far off.

At that moment, Tom walked in yawning and stretching. He rubbed his eyes, hair askew, looking like a child. He spotted the two-Sands on the couch looking lost, and Mort standing above him looking terrified. "What the hell's going on? What was all that noise I heard?"

Mort snapped out of his shock, and turned to look at Tom. "It was Sh-the sheriff."

Tom frowned. "What was he doing here?" He yawned again, and looked at the clock in the kitchen. "And at 5:00 in the morning?" He looked at Sands and Mort disbelieving their explanation.

Mort shrugged, and looked rather nervous as he looked towards the door. "I-I think he left you a note..." he whispered. Tom shrugged and went to the door.

_The Sheriff's department is with you in your endeavor to put Morton Rainey away. We have one bit of evidence that could help your case. Come by to pick it up today, if you can. - Dave_

Tom picked up the note and made a noise of thought. "Hm. I actually think this might be to your benefit Sands." He walked over to Sands who was still staring off into space. "Yo-cowboy!" He waved his hand in front of Sands' face. "You might want to wake up and read this!" He dropped the note in Sands' lap. "While you read I'm going to make coffee."

Sands blinked. He really had to stop spacing like that. Anything could happen in that lapse of time. He looked in his lap and there was the crumpled note with Dave's message.

"Ted's slayer isn't so squeaky clean," he murmured, copping a glance at Mort. But it could wait until later. He still needed coffee. "Someone make me coffee?"

"I said I'm making it." Tom said on his way to the kitchen.

"Who were you talking to?" Mort wasn't going to let it go this time-he was freaked. His eyes looked like a wild animal's.

"What are you on about, John Wayne?" Sands cocked an eyebrow at the skittish writer.

Mort frowned in confusion and a little bit of fear. "You were just talking..." He blinked trying to remember the conversation Sands had had. "Something about presence of mind?"

Tom was puttering around in the kitchen like a little housewife, and he called out giving Sands yet another escape from the questions. "You want cream or sugar?"

"Neither. Just black," Sands called to Tom first before fixing Mort with a hard stare. "Presence of mind, huh? It sounds like something I'd say."

"I wasn't talking to you smartass." Tom retorted. "I know how you like your coffee. I was talking to Farmer John over there."

Tom was ignored as Mort sighed. "Yes but you weren't talking to me. You were talking to someone or something else." Mort moved his head around from side to side examining Sands. His eyes narrowed as he studied him. Tom was getting impatient. He was holding two mugs of coffee.

"Yo Farmer John! You want cream or sugar in your coffee?"

Mort didn't answer, instead he stared at Sands waiting for a straight answer that wouldn't come.

"Hell, I was probably talking to that friend of yours. What's his name... Shooter," Sands snorted. "Now. Coffee. Gimme." He gestured at Tom urgently, needing that first rush of caffeine. His pain was beginning to mount and any opening of the arteries would be welcome before the soreness got too out of hand.

Tom grumbled as he set the two mugs of coffee down on the coffee table in the living room. "Since you didn't open your mouth, you've got black like him," he told Mort. Mort didn't answer, just looked down into the depths of the black coffee, grimacing in disgust. Black coffee was much too bitter to him. Besides, he wasn't really a coffee drinker. What he did need was a cigarette...

"Tom?" Mort called out to his retreating back. "Could I have a cigarette?" he asked.

Tom just waved his hand, and kept walking to get his own coffee. Mort sighed and took a shaky breath. He didn't know what he would do, being deprived of his cigarettes for so long.

"You ever once think you might have a nicotine problem?" Sands grinned wryly.

Mort snorted. "You want to talk about problems? I bet I can come up with a few you have."

"Possibly, but we're not talking about my problems, Morty. We're going to talk about your problems. Like the one that possessed you to kill Ted and Amy."

Mort's entire body went rigid. "I didn't kill them!" he hissed between his teeth.

"Is that your final answer?"

Mort's face was hard, as he glared at Sands. He moved swiftly, and dumped his still steaming cup of coffee in Sands' lap. "Fuck you," he whispered.

Sands couldn't help but recoil in pain, but he did manage to suppress his urge to cry out. That wouldn't have been cool. He captured Mort's angry glare with a cold look of his own, eyes narrowed. With a quick movement, he jerked Mort towards him and spun him around, the cuff chain wrapping around the writer's neck.

"Move and I'll snap your neck, savvy?"

Mort resisted the urge to whimper. He just swallowed hard, his Adams apple bobbing against the chain painfully. At just that moment, Tom walked in sipping on his own coffee. He laughed so hard that he spewed coffee all over Mort's front, causing Mort to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

"Didn't I tell you two to cut that hanky panky business out?" Tom chuckled as he sat himself down in his recliner.

Sands smiled tightly. "Too bad for Tom that he never took me seriously, eh Mort? Too bad for you that I'm a little pissed right now. What do you suggest I do, Morty? Humor Tom or get a little sweet revenge?"

Mort tried to crane his neck to look Sands in the eye, but after numerous sharp pains shot from his shoulder, he gave up. "Huh? Wh-what do you mean?" he asked, quavering a bit.

Tom frowned trying to listen to what Sands was saying to Mort. "What are you running your mouth about over there?" He asked cocking his head. Sands tightened the chain on Mort.

"Don't you be moving there, John Wayne, I'm not done with you yet. Now you're going to listen to me, and you're going to listen well. I don't appreciate having coffee thrown at me under any circumstances. I've been having a bad week. You just salted the wounds. If I were you, I'd tread just a little lighter around me because unlike Tom, you don't know me well enough to know what I will and will not do. Unless you're just itching for a quick grave. Do you want to die, Morty?"

Mort gulped again, and tried to speak, but the chain at his throat was too tight so he just shook his head gravely.

"Sands give the guy a break! Can't you see his about to piss his pants?" Tom laughed a little.

"I already watched him piss in a bottle, he hasn't got anything left." Sands' eyes were cold. Suddenly, he frowned, blinking in confusion before peeking over Mort's shoulder. The man's face was beet red. "Oh Christ," Sands groaned.

Tom just laughed harder.

Mort was trying not to move, afraid of making the situation worse. He was biting his cheek again, a habit he could never seem to kick.

Sands tried to gently extricate his knee from the damp area, but found he was having trouble keeping his balance. The pain shooting through his feet was lancing right up to his knees. He really didn't want to collapse on the couch like Jell-o, not when he was trying to intimidate someone. So he had to lean in close, ignoring the smell of urine.

"Have I made my point?"

Mort swallowed. "Yes," he squeaked.

Tom continued to laugh, but managed to get out, "Why don't you go hose him off?" He gestured to the back door.

Mort's eyes grew wide behind his horn rimmed glasses. He didn't want to be stripped down in front of either of these two men, much less whoever was outside Tom's house.

"You're not going to uncuff me if I don't, are you?" Sands grumbled.

"Hell no!" Tom said. "You made him do it!" He had a few more laughs before he straightened up. "But seriously, let Farmer John have a shower. There ain't no windows he can climb out in my bathroom."

Mort looked over at Tom gratefully. His face was still flushed a deep scarlet. "I-I won't be any trouble." He stuttered.

"Quiet, sugarbutt." Sands gave a warning squeeze on the chain before releasing it just enough for Mort to breathe. "There's still the matter of me being tethered to him. Or did you want to indulge in your voyeuristic fetishes and watch us bathe on the camera you've got installed in your bathroom?"

"Shut it Sands." Tom said sternly. He stood from his recliner and set his mug down on the coffee table. He strode over to Sands and Mort and revealed the key to the cuffs. He held it out in front of Sands' face. "Take him to the bathroom and shut him in there-he reeks." He stuck his nose up in disgust. Despite his embarrassment, Mort's eyes narrowed at his insult. Sands rolled his eyes.

_Next time, he can be cuffed to the convict._

"Damn straight." Sands shook himself and snatched the key out of Tom's fingers. He deftly flicked the chain over Mort's head and shoved Mort ahead of him. The sooner he stopped smelling like piss, the sooner Tom would stop bitching, and maybe Sands could be unchained. Or at the very least, he could sit down. This secret agent thing was getting hard.

"Get in there. I'm keeping guard outside so you..." Sands unsnapped the cuff from Mort's wrist, "don't escape. Use soap. Lost of soap." Sands shoved Mort inside and promptly collapsed on the floor, panting for air. Sands' guess was that Mort had to be just girly enough to need to shower before any attempt at escape.

Once free, Mort whipped around to see Sands on the floor. He licked his lips, thinking about his options before him. He could make a run for it smelling like urine, or he could give in and be taken God only knew where and get all sorts of other pains inflicted upon him. He shuddered, thinking about the numerous conks on the head and the throbbing wound in his shoulder. Hell no, he wasn't taking his chances here.

He leaped over Sands' panting form, and for good measure trampled on his injured feet. Then he crept behind the recliner in which Tom sat staring idly at the television. Once he reached the door, he wasted no time. He flung it wide open, and sprinted out.

He hesitated, looking at Tom's truck and contemplating the difficulty in which he would have in starting it. He looked to the left to see the clear blue lake-Lake Tashmore. He knew that his cabin was just across the lake; he could see the familiar bird feeders hanging from the trees. After a last glimpse into the house to see Tom and Sands lumbering after him, he dashed to the dock, leapt into a motor boat, and revved it up. The only other type of water transportation was a paddle boat.

As he sped away, he chuckled to himself thinking about how Sands' feet would fare in the paddle boat. The chuckle died in his throat as the motor chugged a few more seconds and then died. Mort's mouth gaped open in shock, turning to stare back at the shore mere meters away. Luckily there was a single oar in the bottom of the boat for such occasions. Mort looked down at it as if it were a foreign object and swallowed hard, knowing the agony that would come with rowing, what with his bum shoulder and all.

Mort never had time to begin rowing in earnest. A pistol crack sliced the peaceful Maine wilderness. A second and a third shot ripped through the little rowboat, causing water to pour into the bottom. Sands allowed himself a small smile as Mort screamed in agony. One of his shots had apparently hit the author. Sands hadn't been shooting to kill, but if pain was the only way to get through to him, Sands had no scruples about using it to his advantage. The boat was sinking and Mort wasn't swimming anywhere in his state.

"Tom, go get our little friend, will you?"

Tom stood there at the shore looking out at Mort. "Goddammit Sands! You're gonna fucking kill him before we can even take him in! Shit! Let the little bastard drown, I don't care." He turned to go back into the house. "I was planning on retiring early anyway," he muttered to himself.

_Shit! Shit! What do I do?_ Mort thought in a panic. The third bullet had grazed his thigh. It wasn't a terrible wound, but there was no way he'd be able to swim without the use of a leg and arm. He looked back to the shore, certain that one of them was coming out to haul him back, but Sands just stood there staring in his direction and Tom had turned around. _Oh god! He's gonna let me drown!_ Mort thought, completely panicked. _I don't want to die in this lake! This is where Ken and Greenleaf's bodies are!_ Mort's eyes widened. _Where did that come from?_ he wondered. There would be only one reason he would know that.

"I didn't do it!" he hollered, standing in a sinking motorboat in the middle of Lake Tashmore. He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the voices. He continuously shook his head "no," causing the boat to rock viciously as it filled with water.

"Hold it right there Tom! You're the only one of us that can operate that little boat out there, amigo, or did we overlook this part?" Sands wrapped his arms around a tree hugging it tightly to alleviate some of the pain in his feet when he turned to glare at Tom. He had to ignore Mort for the moment and focus on this infuriating bastard who didn't seem to give a shit. "Tom, get your drunken ass over here and help him!"

Tom flipped Sands off as he continued walking. He was almost to his cabin when yet another bullet ripped through the air, nipping at his heels and coming very close to taking off one of his feet. "Hot damn!" Tom yelped and jumped up in the air. He turned and glared at Sands. Seeing that his attempted intimidation had failed, Tom sighed and headed back over to Sands. "Fine-" He took Sands' shoulder and turned him around, "but you're coming too. No telling what that sick bastard will try. I'm not like you two, ya know?" He smirked at Sands, as they made their way to the paddle boat.

"What do you mean 'two'?" Sands stopped short, wobbled-his arms pinwheeling frantically-and eventually fell backwards with a thump. He cursed loudly, wondering just what other kinds of hellish luck he'd be subjected to today.

_You should get your feet checked out._

"Too much time and effort."

_You're not fine._

"Yes I am."

_Far from it._

"Shut up, just... shut up."

"What the hell man?" Tom looked at Sands, dumbfounded.

Meanwhile, Mort had overworked himself and was both physically and mentally exhausted. He dropped down into the slowly sinking boat and laid back. The tips of his hair were getting wet. His mutterings of denial continued in whispers.

Tom happened to glance at where Mort was, only to see the boat and no Mort. "Shit! Get up Sands!" Sands' lunatic ranting was all but forgotten at the disappearance of Mort. "He's gonna fucking drown!" Tom was raving, his own words of not caring were also forgotten as he hefted Sands to his feet and dumped him unceremoniously into the tiny boat. He began paddling furiously, but seeing how slow they were moving with still no sign of Mort, Tom grew increasingly nervous. "Sands...I'm gonna need you to suck it up; we've gotta get out there. Fuck! I'm gonna be in deep shit if this bastard dies!"

"Oh boo fucking hoo."

Sands had curled into a ball at the bottom of the boat amidst the dead leaves and pond slime. He'd had fun before and this was most definitely not it. And now with Tom's inability to paddle the boat himself, Sands was ready to shoot Tom and quit the Agency entirely. Make a clean break before things got nasty.

He dragged himself through the muck and reached the twin pedal spots. Damned if Tom thought he was going to pedal, he was in too much pain for that. But Sands was the resourceful type, and had resigned himself to working with his arms. They gained on the little boat containing the once frantic Mort.

Tom's eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at Sands pedaling with his hands. "Sure you don't need to go back to the hospital and have those feet of yours checked out?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

"Fuck you and fuck your hospitals," Sands panted. They had to save Mort. Now. Before he passed out. Himself or Mort, Sands wasn't sure anymore. Damn that niggling doubt that was trying to convince him to see a doctor. He was FINE. A little beat up, but perfectly alright. Wasn't he?

_What do you think?_

Sands closed his eyes, focusing all his energy on turning the pedals another rotation. It wasn't much longer before the boat bumped against Mort's rapidly sinking one. Mort mad a strangled sort of sound as he was jarred at the impact of the paddle boat bumping into what was left of his motorboat. He opened his eyes wide, as if just realizing that he was in the middle of the lake in a sinking boat. He began to panic, flailing his arms and legs. As he moved frantically, he cried out in pain. He was causing the boat to sink completely. He was subconsciously moving away from Sands and Tom as he dogpaddled in the water anxiously.

_Gotta get out of here! Can't drown in the lake like… like Ken and Tom Greenleaf! _

"Goddammit, Farmer John!" Tom hissed as he finally grabbed a hold of Mort's collar and pulled him screaming and fighting towards the paddleboat.

"No! I'm not going to die here! Not in the lake!" Mort's cries were hysterical, and the adrenaline was almost too much for Tom's lanky form.

"Get. In. The. Boat." Tom grunted with the effort he was exerting to pull Mort into the paddle boat. Mort was still flailing his arms as Tom hefted him with much difficulty into the paddleboat. He put his weight across Mort's torso until the writer had worn himself out and was just panting from the exertion.

Mort looked up into the clear blue sky, gasping for breath, as the truth began to dawn on him. "No!" He whimpered to himself over and over, "No, no, NO!" He then rolled over and curled into a ball, oblivious to anything around him. He'd pushed the corpses of Ken Karsch and Tom Greenleaf into the very lake they were on.

Sands was feeling sort of put out. Mort's thrashings were about to pummel him out of the boat, and Sands didn't really want to go for a swim right them. He had to stop Mort. He grabbed Mort's injured shoulder viciously and squeezed the man's bloody thigh simultaneously. Pain was Mort's override button. The pressure on the bullet wounds got a gasp out of Mort as he went limp. Sands sighed, feeling his own strength waning. He began probing Mort's new hole for the bullet, finding he'd only grazed the author. That was good. Tom wouldn't whine as much.

"Let's get the fuck out of here. I'm tired."

Tom just shook his head. "As you wish," he whispered more to himself as he slowly steered the boat back to shore, pedaling slowly. The lake was calm now, almost eerily so. It was as if it was belying what was to come.

XXX

They'd reached shore without incident. Mort had twitched in the throes of a bad dream, but hadn't woken up. Sands was dreading getting out of the boat, but didn't see a way out of it. Tom would get suspicious if he opted to sleep in the boat that night. Sands would probably get frostbite on his face, just for spite. He swung Mort up to Tom and tried to stand up. The boat swayed dangerously under his feet and he had to drop to his knees. Tom's look of confusion got a glare out of Sands who was determined to get out under his own power. He stood up again, managing to stay upright this time. His first heavy-footed step tipped the boat over, dumping Sands in the murky lake water with a yell.

Tom chuckled as he peered over from where he stood on the shore. "You alright over there, Sands?"

Mort, who'd just awoken, looked at Sands sitting in the water and was utterly confused. "Wha-Why are you in the water?" he asked, dumbfounded. He'd missed Sands' fall.

Sands' teeth were clenched to prevent himself from snapping in anger. He wasn't sure what he was feeling more, pain or humiliation. "Get me the fuck out of here," he whispered.

Tom's laughter ceased as he trudged over to Sands and bent over. He wrapped an arm around his partner's waist and helped him up. He nodded to Mort to go on into the house. With the wound, as slight as it was, there was little chance of Mort attempting escape very soon.

Sands was shaking. He couldn't show weakness in front of Tom. It was unthinkable that his captive get to see him like this. It was unprofessional. He'd been shot at, he'd been cut, he'd been tortured, and now that he had a little bit of pain, he couldn't even keep control over his motor skills. He felt his stomach contract. Felt the beginnings of an anxiety attack.

_You're just going to freak right out, aren't you?_

"Freak... freak out..."

_Now why is that? Take a little swim and you're off the deep end, so to speak._

"Can't-can't do this. Gotta'... gotta'... get myself together." He licked his lips, his eyes squeezed shut. Shudders wracked his frame.

As soon as Sands began his ramblings, Tom stopped immediately unbeknownst to Sands. When Sands started shaking, Tom grew nervous himself. He didn't know what was going on with his partner, but in his 10 years in the CIA, he'd never encountered anything-or anyone-quite like his current partner. He swallowed hard, looking at the man beside him who was trying his best to hide his weakness.

"You think you can make it to the truck?" Tom asked, not bothering with explanations. No need to "freak" him out any further. Meanwhile, Mort had made it to the porch, and was watching curiously as Sands' body shook.

_Looks like Mister Sands has a few screws loose hisself..._

"NO! No hospital, no-n-nn-NO!" Sands tore away from Tom, staggering back into the water. His short-circuiting brain wasn't aware of much beyond the implications of a hospital. He was NOT going to a hospital. He'd rather die, quite simply. Doctors were quacks and needed to die and Sands would kill them all.

He tugged out the gun strapped to his belt and pointed it at Tom, eyes narrowed dangerously. They were crossing from the pain and his hands were shaking horrifically, unable to stay trained on his target. Tom raised his hands in surrender.

"Hey-hey now!" He moved towards Sands cautiously, keeping his hands held up to show that he intended no harm. "I just thought-" He reached out and wrenched the gun almost easily from Sands' hands. "That it would be a good spot for you to rest for a moment. If you feel that you can make it to the cabin, by all means..." He gestured with Sands' gun.

Sands dropped to his knees. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, although nobody could tell with the pond water dripping from the ends of his hair. They were going to tie him down and shoot him up with all kinds of heinous junk. They were going to find out every secret he had and tear him to pieces when they did. Cut him open, slice out his heart. He saw the beating muscle in front of him now, clear as day. He couldn't watch; it wasn't real, it couldn't happen. They were going to kill him, he knew it. Well, he wouldn't let them.

His shaking hand found its way into his pocket and to the knife nestled among the smoking accessories. He wouldn't give the bastards the pleasure of cutting him up like a beef carcass. He'd do it himself if he had to.

The knife was unsheathed and against his throat .

_Oh fuck… _Tom didn't know what to do. He wasn't trained for this kinda shit: how to deal with suicidal maniacs. "Ok Sands…just calm down…" He raised his hands and lowered them, gesturing for him to calm down. "J-just give me the knife." Tom faltered as he attempted to give the command, sticking out his hand.

_Dr. Adams' face was barely visible beyond the light he was flashing in Sands' eye. He had a big, shit-eating grin on his face._

_"Well, Sheldon, you look just fine to me."_

_"I can't see!"_

_"Your eyes are fine. Nothing out of the ordinary."_

_"Look harder!"_

_"I can, but it's not going to change anything."_

_"Fix it!"_

_"Laser eye surgery. Do you have that kind of money?"_

_A laser bore into Sands' eye. He was numbed and unfeeling but he watched it all with a detached air. From above. Above? Oh fuck!_

Sands' hand slipped and the knife gouged his neck. It was no worse than a shaving cut, but the immediate pain-pain that didn't throb or ache-snapped him back to the present. Tom was bent in front of him and he had a knife at his own throat. He swallowed slowly and dropped the knife. Tom breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and his hand quickly dove after the knife and he chucked it out into the depths of the lake. He wasn't going to push Sands into going to the hospital just yet.

"You ready to go inside now?" He asked guardedly. "You need to get some rest. It's been a long day."

Sands shuddered. "Fuck no. I'm going..." He glanced at Mort who was transfixed on the steps of the porch. "I'm not going to get any rest if I know my thought patterns."

Tom decided it best to just agree with him. "Alright, but you will at least get up out of the water and come in right?" He gave Sands a small smile, seeing that he was at least partially back to normal, whatever the hell that was for him.

"Uh, yes. Sure. Right. G-good," Sands mumbled, regulating his breathing. That had been a scary five minutes, having no grasp on reality or his mind. He didn't want to think that'd be happening much more. It couldn't, for his sanity.

_And that's why you're babbling like a nitwit._

"Oh Christ, shut up!" he moaned.

Tom said nothing as Sands argued with himself. He did reach out a hand to help Sands to his feet though. Ever so slowly, they made their way to the porch and into the cabin. As they passed Mort, he was leaning against the railing on the porch staring at Sands, his mouth gaped open slightly.

"Whadd're you lookin' at, John Wayne? You ever see a man go apeshit before?" Sands asked tiredly, as they stumped inside. He didn't bother to turn around for an answer. Mort whipped around, and his face flushed. He hadn't realized he'd been staring. He turned to give an apologetic smile, only to see Sands' back.

_Well fine then! He's an asshole anyway!_ He thought mentally, attempting to cover his embarrassment. He limped after them and watched as Sands argued about where he would be "placed."

"The couch, Tommy Boy. Just don't get any dumb ideas about cuffing me again, savvy? I don't think my heart can take that kind of pressure," Sands waved vaguely at the comfy couch.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Yeah-ok." he said sarcastically. "Is there anything else I can get you, your royalness?" he said dramatically. "Some aspirin, or perhaps some tequila?" Despite his sarcasm, he was quite concerned about Sands' behavior out at the lake.

Sands paused, thinking about another tequila, but he stopped himself. If that hadn't been a depression trip, he didn't know what was. No, the alcohol was better left alone.

"Ice cream."

"Well hate to break it to you, but you're shit-out-a-luck. I'm fresh out," Tom said with the whispers of a smirk on his lips. Meanwhile, Mort was leaning against the wall near the front door, nearing unconsciousness from the pain in both his shoulder and thigh. Tom glanced over at him, and rolled his eyes.

"Hey Farmer John-why'nt you come sit down before you pass out eh? Wouldn't want another mess to clean up. There's plenty of those to do as it is." He mumbled the last part to himself.

Mort looked at Tom with a mixture of a glare and a look of relief. He very slowly made his way to the recliner, glancing down at Sands as he passed. Sands was pale-unhealthily so-and really needed medical help more than he needed ice cream.

"Damn, I was looking forward to some. Cold pizza? What does a poor bachelor like yourself keep in the fridge? I haven't eaten in... a long time now..." Sands blinked. That couldn't be good, not remembering his last meal.

Tom shrugged. "I'll see what I have." He turned and went into the kitchen to take inventory of his fridge.

"I'm hungry," Mort stated aloud.

"Good job, John Wayne, we'll make him feel guilty together," Sands grinned lazily over at Mort. Mort's lips turned slightly at the corners, at Sands' comment. He had to suppress a chuckle as he heard several thumps in the kitchen, followed by a hissed curse. Tom returned to the cripples in his living room to report the minimal food in his kitchen.

"Well looks like everything in the fridge is either alive, or um…an odd color. That leaves tuna, chicken noodle soup, and some chips."

Mort perked up. "Chips?"

Tom nodded. "Nacho Cheesier Doritos," he said with a look for Sands to see if anything appealed to him.

Mort's heart leaped with joy at the mere mention of his favorite meal. "I want some of the Doritos," he said. He was so anxious that he stood unsteadily to his feet to make his way into the kitchen.

"Just hold up there Farmer John, you'll get your Doritos. What about you, Sands, anything sound appealing?"

Sands wasn't a junkfood fan; he appreciated food of the bloody variety. The soup would make him feel like even more of an invalid. He felt his shoulders slump at the thought. That left the tuna, and he'd had his fill of swimming. Dammit.

"Tuna."

Tom nodded and headed back into the kitchen to get their food. He was hungry himself and the chicken noodle soup sounded just fine to him. But first he felt a mother hen instinct to get Sands and Mort situated. He returned a few minutes later with a bowl of tuna, and a bag of Doritos. Mort stared at the bag almost drooling and Tom couldn't help but chuckle at his eagerness.

"Here ya go Farmer John." He tossed the bag of chips at Mort, who snatched them out of the air. Then he placed the tuna on the coffee table in front of Sands before he headed back to the kitchen for his own nourishment.

Mort delved into the bag of Doritos as if he were starved half to death. He stuck a few handfuls in his mouth, munching loudly. Sands glanced out of the corner of his eyes at the ravenous Mort. A small smile stole across his face.

"Something tells me you've never eaten before, John Wayne."

Mort stopped chewing, and turned to glance at Sands. The corner of his mouth twitched. He swallowed what was in his mouth, then spoke. "I just really like Doritos…" His face flushed a bright pink as he turned his attention back to the half-full bag in his lap.

"Shit!" Tom could be heard from the living room. He was once again banging around in the kitchen. Added to the commotion was the buzzing of a smoke alarm.

_"He's going into cardiac arrest! The drugs are reacting with something in his system!"_

_"We can't stop now! He's not stitched up!"_

_"We have to stop or he'll die!"_

Sands shook himself out of his funk. He couldn't be doing that. Not now. Not ever. No, no, no, no, no...

_That's enough, there, Sheldon. Fix the problem._

"Towel... towel... Morton, find a towel. Blow fresh air at the smoke detector until it stops. Tom, what the fuck are you doing in there?" Sands demanded.

Mort froze his mouth full of Doritos, and looked at Sands nervously.

"Shit!" Came Tom's muffled curse again, as smoke began filtering into the living room. Tom's coughing could also be heard amid the acrid smell of something burning. Tom's coughing grew louder as he came into the living room. He was wearing an apron with a giant black spot on the chest.

"I had a-_cough_ bit of a problem, but it's _wheeze_ all good now!" he rasped over the drone of the smoke alarm. "Just a lot of smoke is all."

Mort couldn't help but snort, forgetting the sharp chips in his mouth. He immediately began to choke on the bits and pieces of half-chewed Doritos in his mouth. Sands reached out a fist and thumped Mort in the stomach. For an awkward Heimlich, it did the trick. Chewed up chips sprayed out of his mouth and he stopped coughing for the most part. Tom was harder to fix. That was when Sands saw the wireless phone on the table. When he had to act, he didn't have to think. His fingers pecked at the keypad.

"Hello, 911?"

"Is there an emergency?"

"Our fucking house is on fire! Get someone out here this fucking instant or I'll get the CIA on your sorry asses!"

**Author Thanks: Neon Daisies: **Yes, lots and lots of Tom! And Mortpout. No, it's not too wrong. **Merrie: **Is that enough hurt? And enough Jeffrey? And amusement? And yeah, I don't blame you in the least for thinking that about House and SJ. I'm beginning to think that too. **DB: **_guilty look_ Yeah, SJ is fun to play with. He's fun to torture. But I didn't say that! **DL: **We do a lot to poor Morty poo. He doesn't deserve us. Hopefully not too much more doing that nasty for them.


	5. Damsels in Distress, Part 1

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R, or M if you prefer.

**Summary**: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer**: Before people get confused, we don't own Sara. In other words, we still don't own a whole lot in this story that can be construed as cool. This chapter is short because it wouldn't break nicely at a good spot, so we're breaking it in half and calling it two chapters. Clever, huh?

**Damsels in Distress, Part 1**

15 minutes later, after all had calmed down considerably, there was a loud rapping on the front door, followed by the door swinging open, and the tiny living room was soon filled with people. There were two firefighers, two paramedics, and two very familiar looking cops.

Sands just wanted to crawl into a corner and die. People. Too many people, stifling and pushing and closing in. He'd have to deal with it later, when he wasn't about to be killed in a fire.

"Oh good. People in Maine do know how to go fast," he drawled softly.

"What seems to be the problem, Agent Sands?" Sandy hissed through gritted teeth. She was once again called in while off duty. "We were radioed that there was a fire?" She looked at Tom's charred apron in disgust.

"So you're not only the cops, but you're the firemen, too? How rich!" Sands forced a laugh he wasn't feeling.

"Fu-" She was cut off by one of the paramedics clearing his throat.

"Is there any medical attention needed?" He asked, eyeing the bloodstain on Mort's shoulder cryptically. When the cops, paramedics, and firefighters had burst through the door, Mort had frozen, clutching the bag of Doritos to his chest. Under the paramedic's scrutiny, he looked around from face to face nervously, coming to rest on Sands' to see what he would do. He somehow, unknowingly, was looking for Sands' support.

"Tom. Where the hell is Tom?" Sands hauled himself onto his knees to peer over the back of the sofa for a glimpse of Tom. He was standing right behind the couch looking rather nervous. He swallowed hard and took a step backwards away from Sands, out of reach.

"Actually, there's something wrong with his feet..." Tom said almost shyly.

Mort held his breath in anticipation. He hugged the Doritos closer.

Sands felt his breath catch in his throat. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I-I'm sorry," Tom whispered sincerely. "I-it's for the best. What would I do with a bum partner?" He asked in an attempt to lighten the situation.

The paramedic who'd spoken earlier, stepped forward. "What's the problem?" he asked Sands.

"Problem? There's no problem here," his jaw tightened. His eyes darkened into black shards of glass.

"He can't walk, and he's having trouble just standing on them," Tom said a little more bravely.

The paramedic nodded, seeming to understand. "Perhaps you should come in, and let a doctor have a look at them?" He suggested, stepping even closer until he was just a foot away from Sands.

Mort smiled a little, at the paramedic's boldness. The man didn't know how Sands felt about going to the hospital. He would soon have an idea, if Mort could judge the other man's character according to what he'd seen of it the past couple of days.

Sands slid back onto the couch, feeling his stomach bottoming out. He was going to a hospital again. But he wasn't unconscious this time. He could do something about it. He fixed the paramedic with a cold smile.

"Are you sure you want me to take me to the hospital?"

The paramedic frowned as he studied Sands and his odd behavior. Just moments before, he'd been so nervous, like he was claustrophobic, and now he was…well…acting rather 'cool' about the whole thing. "I think it might be best if you had those feet of yours checked out. If what your friend said is true, you might be in serious danger of using the mobility of your feet for good. If you'd be so kind as to satisfy my curiosity..."

As the paramedic reached out to Sands to help him to his feet, Mort's eyes darted around the sea of faces. He began to grow anxious and stood up quickly. He stood swaying for a moment, dizzy from standing so quickly. Tom moved swiftly, placing his rain stick in Mort's hand to help steady him. As the paramedic got closer to Sands, Mort's grip on the stick tightened.

There was a dull thwack of a solid punch connecting with a jaw. Sands had taken advantage of Mort's distraction and laid the paramedic out with one punch. He wouldn't kill him-he wasn't unjustly cruel-but he would not be taken to a hospital. He was about to leap to his feet, ready to bolt, when he remembered he couldn't exactly 'bolt'. His momentum carried him forward enough to give his knees vicious rugburn. That was when the second paramedic stepped forward, a hard glint in her eye.

"Sir, if you expect any help, you're going to have to cooperate. Knocking out our staff isn't going to get you better any faster."

Sands was about to lash out and kick her feet out from under her when the pain from the centralized weight over the ball of his foot nearly caused him to pass out. The girl took the opportunity to straddle his waist and hold his hands behind his back to prevent any damage to himself or to her. She stuck the needle she had palmed into a vein in Sands' arms and waited. Sands felt his resolve bleeding away and eventually, just lay quietly. He saw the end coming. "What's your name, sugarbutt?"

"Sara. Are you ready to cooperate?"

"Yes."

Mort's grip had grown so strong on the stick that he was sure there were splinters embedded in his hand. He didn't like the way the lady paramedic had taken advantage of Sands like she did. He took a few shaky steps forward which went unnoticed until he lifted the stick. From far away, Mort heard one of the firefighters' voices, "Look out!" but it was too late. Mort met the brown eyes of the lady paramedic, bringing the stick down hard on her forehead and watching as her eyes rolled up. As the cops and firefighters advanced on him, he spun around in circles, swinging the stick out in front of him dangerously.

"Get away!" he yelled protectively.

Sandy made a lunge for him and Mort swung the stick as hard as he could, intending to send the smartass cop where she belonged, when, unfortunately, Sands sat up and was whacked in the head, only cushioning the hit that Sandy received. Upon hearing the sickening thud, Mort whipped around to see Sands falling face first to the floor. He was mortified, and paid no attention to Sandy or the cuffs that were once again round his wrists.

Sara winced, feeling the welt on her forehead. That had seriously hurt, but she wasn't quite down yet. She couldn't say the same for her charge, who seemed to have succumbed to the drug and a similar bump on his head. Her partner was coming around, but it'd be awhile until he'd be physically sound enough to help her. She got to her feet to assess the damage.

The one with the stick had been restrained with a set of handcuffs. For the moment, all dangers had been neutralized. They'd still have to be transported to the hospital for treatment, but it was a small step in the right direction.

"Who was in the worst pain?" she asked the remaining man.

Tom nodded his head in the direction of Sands. "You saw how he couldn't even stand up. As for him," he nodded at Mort. "He's ok, just a little on the melodramatic side. Although I'm sure he's in his fair share of pain," he said thoughtfully.

Mort just stared at Sands lying, face down, on the carpet, and at the people around him, their faces swimming before him in a blur. He'd pulled the stitches in his shoulder once again while swinging that blasted stick. As his eyelids grew heavy, he heard Shooter.

_If you'd had a shovel, nun this woulda happened._

"Aw shit," Tom muttered as he watched Mort slip under as well. He shook his head in disbelief. If he didn't feel like a mother hen, he didn't know what he felt like. "You ok?" He asked the lady paramedic as he watched her rub her forehead.

"Yes, fine, thank you. You might want to follow and bring him to the hospital." Sara gestured at Mort. "He'll come in the ambulance so he can get quicker help," she nodded back to Sands. "Is that reasonable?"

Tom nodded his head, and watched as the 2 firefighters lifted Sands up onto a gurney and wheeled him out of the cabin. Tom wrinkled his nose a bit at the bloodstain that was growing on Mort's shoulder, thinking about the blood that was already on the bench in his truck. He sighed.

"Will you two be assisting me in getting him in my truck?" He looked at Sandy and Barney pointedly.

Sandy scowled, but nodded her head once. She and Barney half dragged, half carried Mort out the door. "I-I'll be right there," Tom said before disappearing into the kitchen. He returned to the living room, shut off the lights, and locked the door behind him. He quickly opened the passenger door to his truck for Sandy and Barney to heft Mort into the cab. Sandy, none too gently, removed the cuffs from the unconscious man and slammed the door with much more force than necessary, causing Tom to glare at her. She just looked at his bulging pockets pointedly. Tom's face flushed minimally as he hopped into his truck. As soon as his driveway was clear, Tom turned out onto the main road following the ambulance to the hospital.

XXX

Sands was conscious. He was wrapped in starchy sheets and a slight tug on his arm revealed something stuck in it. He had a suspicious feeling he knew where he was. He tried swallowing, feeling his throat close dangerously. It was dry and parched and he couldn't move his neck. His fingers probed the area, finding a giant gauze pad. He wanted to yell and rant. He cracked open an eyelid instead.

The sunlight assaulted his eye and he hissed in pain. He was so drugged, he couldn't even do the simplest of functions anymore. Blinking was a chore. Breathing was another matter entirely. It took him awhile before he noticed he couldn't feel his feet. His throat tightened reflexively for a cry of some sort, but all he could manage was a weak gurgle.

_They killed me. They fucking killed me!_

"Sands? Sands?" Tom's voice sounded somewhat far away to him. "How are you feeling?"

Tom was on Sands' right and Mort hovered on his left, fresh bandages on his thigh and shoulder. He looked down at Sands, frowning worriedly.

Sands couldn't even moan in pain properly. His tongue was swollen and the meds still had an iron grip on his body. Not to mention his missing feet.

"Enguhnuh!"

Mort's brow creased further, and he looked to Tom for reassurance. Tom nodded, for Mort's benefit, although he himself was worried. He wasn't exactly sure what they had done to Sands' feet. He thought it odd how drugged up he was as well, for just a foot surgery...

"I-I'm just gonna go find out when you can get out of here." He said, looking at Sands although he wasn't counting on a coherent response. As soon as Tom left the room, Mort scooted closer to Sands until he was mere inches from him. He stared down at him, looking almost panicked. He swallowed hard as if he were afraid somewhat. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out: just strangled sounds. He closed his mouth and swallowed. He nodded at Sands, and patted his shoulder.

Sands' flinch was more like a sluggish shrug. He was fighting with all the strength he had and he knew eventually there would come a time when he'd wear himself out. Then they'd come in earnest with their knives and torture devices. These lackeys were here to put him at ease. Then doctors would filter in, each crazier than the villain in a psycho-horror movie. Their instruments would get steadily worse, pulling and chopping and biting at him until it was all he could do to scream. His achy muscles picked up their trembling where they'd left off back at the lake, though much less defined than they had been.

_You want to get out, don't you?_

"Ughuh."

_But you're stuck here, aren't you?_

"Ung..."

_Why aren't you fighting harder?_

"Ant..."

Mort had jumped back at Sands' unexpected movement despite how weak it was. As Sands stared at the ceiling making odd grunts, Mort's frown deepened and he once again stepped closer. He made out the last word.

"Ant? Ant what?" He whispered to Sands, afraid to speak much louder and startle him.

Sands hadn't expected Mort in such close proximity. The writer's soft whisper caused him to start as violently as could be expected in his state. The arm attached to the IV came up in a slow arc, aiming to connect with Mort's head. It didn't quite have the oomph Sands had hoped for though, and Mort sidestepped it easily. Sands made a sound in his throat that dissolved into a coughing fit.

When Mort saw Sands' arm flying towards him, he quickly stepped back into the IV pole, wincing as it connected sharply with his ribs. When Sands began to gasp for breath, wheezing and coughing, Mort began to panic.

"Oh Jesus! Oh God! I'm so sorry!" He reached out a hand to steady Sands, only causing him to cough harder trying to prevent Mort from touching him. "Nurse! Nurse!" Mort began to holler frantically pacing the room and pulling at his hair. "Where the hell is the nurse?" He muttered to himself. He went to the doorway and shouted into the hall as Sands' coughing increased. "We need a nurse! He's fucking dying in here!" He turned back to Sands, his hands still entangled in his hair, eyes wild. "Oh god, oh god! I can't kill again, I can't! I didn't mean to do it-I-it was an accident! It wasn't me!"

_O' course it wasn't-you was too 'fraid ter do it yerself so I had ta do it for you. _

Mort's eyes widened. "No!" He shouted. "No! No! No!" He continued his shouting and tugging at his hair long after Tom had returned with the doctor. Tom looked between the two of them, Sands with his coughing fit, Mort in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

Sands gave a last cough and lay limp on the bed, his energy expended. Maybe if he thought happy thoughts, he'd just fly away...

XXX

When the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital went to hell in a hand basket-due in no small part to a man not worth mentioning _cough_Vogler_cough_-House had packed up and went to live a life on the road. He'd had a good run at the hospital, but he needed to expand his horizons, sample the local color of places not over run by evil, conglomerate assholes. When that didn't pan out, he moved to Maine. For shits and giggles he supposed. The staff of the small town hospital demanded a psychiatric doctor, told House that he could go elsewhere if he couldn't do psychiatry. So he'd figured what the hell, there were worse things to do. He could still have a good time guessing peoples secret physical maladies.

The coughing in the room set his mind to all sorts of conclusions. Dry, hoarse cough…dehydrated. Probably just woke up, guessing from the length of the coughing spell. The patient would be in rough shape. House could only guess what he was in for besides his previously scheduled "psych eval." When a man came sprinting out of the room, House was there.

The man in bed looked pale and sickly like a good patient should, but another man was furiously wearing a path in the floor tiles with his mad muttering and hair tugging. House coughed loudly, waiting for an impact. When none came, he let it slide and simply started talking.

"Well…what seems to be the problem?" His face was a mask of false pleasantness.

Mort didn't glance up as the doctor spoke to him. He didn't even hear him. All he heard was the annoyingly familiar voice within his own head that nobody else could hear until it decided to seize control of his body.

He looked up suddenly, and gave the doctor a false smile. "Hello," he drawled, his eyes cold. He turned to glance at Sands, giving him a cold smile as well. "He seems to have a few screws loose…Think you can tighten 'em up, Mister…" He looked at the doctor pointedly, for he wore neither coat nor name tag.

"That's what they pay me for." House' mouth was twisted into a smart smile. He was leaning heavily on a cane, but he didn't seem to have any other anomalies about him. "You ever think of giving him a couple of ice chunks? Does wonders for the throat."

Shooter looked at him, an eyebrow raised quizzically. "I don' like to 'sociate with the like of him." He pursed his lips and looked down at Sands, frowning.

Tom just stood frozen to the spot watching the interaction between the doctor and Mort. He'd never seen this side of the writer before, although Sands had mentioned something of the odd behavior that he now exhibited. "Mort, what's going on?"

Shooter turned and gave Tom a false smile as well. "Mah name's-" He stopped and glanced at the doctor, watching him quizzically. He gave him a tightlipped smile and looked back at the puzzled Tom. "I'd like it if you'd call meh John. It's uh personal nickname." As Tom frowned, he turned and gave Sands a lopsided grin, and winked.

Sands felt his breath coming in shallow gasps. This wasn't good. John? His name was Mort. Sands wasn't sure if Shooter was a first name, but the implications of John were ugly. And Sands couldn't do anything about it.

"John? Well, I guess we're all just running out of original names this year. What wrong with your friend, here, John?" House swung a stool over beside Sands' bed and began running cursory exams.

Shooter gave Sands a toothy grin from behind House. "Well fer one thang he likes to talk to hisself." His grin broadened. "And he's right fine homicidal." He gestured to his bandages when House turned to look at him. "He mighten even be suicidal." He grimaced, and gestured to his own neck for House to look at Sands' where the gauze pad covered the gouge from his knife.

Tom was going to pitch in, and stop 'John,' but he couldn't. He knew Sands needed help, but Lord knew he didn't want to be on the defensive end of Sands' attacks. Almost as though triggered by Tom's thoughts, Sands flung a tired arm out and grabbed Mort's wrist. John's wrist. Whoever the hell he was. He tugged Mort in close, anger radiating out of his eyes.

"I bet…you reckon yerself…a right…fine psychiatrist… huh, John Wayne?" he panted.

House said nothing, more than eager to watch the carnage. It'd been awhile since his last episode of Jerry Springer.

Shooter's grin grew as he reached out his other hand and grabbed the wrist that connect himself and Sands. Their grips were trying to outdo the other's. Eventually, Shooter won out, due to Sands' weakened state. He gave Sands a chilling smile, withdrew his arm from the agent's grasp, and stepped back from the bed. He said not a word as he left the room, almost swaggering despite the slight limp. Tom watched him go, then turned back to Sands almost questioningly. It was after all Sands' assignment.

Sands' eyes were crazed as he saw Tom just let Shooter walk away.

"What the fuck are you doing! Get him!" he yelled. This naturally produced another spectacular coughing fit, which prompted House into action. He reached for the water on the stand and dipped the napkin from the untouched hospital breakfast into a cup of water, transporting it then to Sands' mouth. He tapped impatiently, waiting for the man to get his fill before cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Better?"

"Whadduya think? You saw 'is eyes! He's nottin 'is right min, doctuh, someone's gotta' go get him!" Sands was waving at the empty doorway.

"Neither are you," House pointed out only too cheerfully.

Tom scurried out of the room, and looked down the hallway. Empty. "Shit, Sands is gonna kill me..." he muttered, moving quickly to the nurses' station. As he approached, he sighed in annoyance. It was none other than the kid, Betty Sue. "Hey, you see where a guy went? Chin length blonde hair-glasses?" He looked at her impatiently, as she slowly nodded. "Well?" he prodded.

"He asked me where he could get coffee."

"And…" Jesus! He felt like he was talking to a three year old! "What did you tell him?"

"I told him that there was a cafeteria downstairs, and that there was a quaint little coffee shop a couple blocks down the street."

Tom balled up a fist and slammed it down on the counter, causing the girl to draw back, eyes wide. "You better hope he hasn't gone far. If he's at that quaint coffee shop down the street, you'll be finding yourself a quaint grave very soon." He wasn't big on threats, but hell-he was under a lot of stress! With that said, he took off down the hallway, bypassing the elevator, and thundering down the stairs.

This left a frantic Sands alone with an uncaring Dr. House. Sands had just about maneuvered to the edge of the bed to crawl out of it when House popped a little white pill into his mouth.

"Wha wazzat?" Sands slurred, eyes narrowing. His throat was still tight and tongue unwieldy, but the water helped.

"What was what?"

"Li'l white pill. Looked suspiciously good fer you 'n th'medicinal sense. Whazzit?"

"They're my little friends. You're not allowed to have any."

"D'yuh really wanna push me, doctuh? I'm havin' a bad day. Izzat Vicodin, or izzit not?"

"It most certainly is Vicodin, but I'm not allowed to prescribe it. That's something you should bring up with someone more competent than I," House rolled his eyes. That was something he'd learned here. Psychiatrists weren't doctors. House, however, was.

XXX

While Sands was discussing pharmaceutical drugs, Tom had reached the lobby after descending 3 flights of stairs. He was gasping for breath, and had to bend over, resting his hands on his knees, swallowing deep breaths. While he was trying to catch his breath, a paramedic who was just getting off of her 12 hour shift walked by.

Sara immediately recognized Tom from the previous night. Her brow furrowed, as she saw him wheezing and gasping for breath. She hurried to his side, and began thumping him on the back.

Once he got his breathing under control, Tom was able to look up and meet Sara's brown eyes. His face flushed brighter than the cherry red it already was from a lack of oxygen. He self consciously reached up and scratched the back of his neck.

"Are you ok?" Sara asked looking genuinely concerned, not as paramedic, but as a friend. Tom nodded, smiling sheepishly.

"Yeah, just a bit out of shape," he blushed again.

Sara just grinned, thinking his shyness rather cute. "I was just getting off-"

"I'd better go-" Tom started.

They both laughed nervously, then Tom finally spoke. "Actually, I'm searching for that guy that erm…" He raised his eyebrows and grimaced at the noticeable bruise on her forehead. "I was told that he was given directions to this coffee shop down the street, if you'd want to join me…?"

Sara blushed. "Is that…was that a request for a date?"

"Well-um…" He shrugged, and looked up at her, "Yeah, I think so." He scratched the back of his neck that was bright red. "Do you accept?" He tried to give her a charming smile, but it was a weak attempt.

"Now you sound like you're trying to propose to me," she laughed. "You're never going to find your man at this rate."

Tom's face flushed even more at the mention of proposing, but his mind clicked. He really did need to be moving along. "So, are you coming?" he asked a bit more confidently, almost businesslike.

"I think I can spare a minute or two…just to make sure you actually find him. Right?"

Tom gave a lopsided grin as he nodded his head. "Yeah."

He stuck out his hand for her to hold as they headed towards the doors. He stepped through first, and, being a gentleman, held them open for Sara. Once they were out in the bright sunlight, he squinted a little, then he looked down the street to his right and to his left.

"Uh…"

_Shoot!_ He thought to himself. The nurse hadn't told him which way the coffee shop was!

"Something wrong?" Sara frowned, wondering why Tom was stalling.

"Uh…" Tom looked over at her, smiling sheepishly. "I, uh, you wouldn't happen to know which way the coffee shop is, would you?"

"What's the name?"

Tom's grin turned into a sort of grimace. Once again, his hand returned to the back of his neck. Instead of answering the question, he told her what he did know. "It's down the street a couple blocks…quaint little coffee shop."

"Oh, you must mean TJ's. Your friend has good taste. It's a right turn," Sara smiled.

Tom looked at her gratefully and let out a sigh of relief. "Well, let's get going. We've wasted enough time as it is," he said, leading the way. Sara shrugged and followed. Truth be told, she thought she was beginning to feel a sort of…closeness…with this rough and tumble gentleman. He was cute in a dopey and utterly endearing way.

They walked the 2 blocks in relative silence, making small talk. When they reached the coffee shop, Tom was a bit surprised. It _was_ very quaint, in a pleasant way. It was also very small-it shouldn't be too hard to find Mort-but quite frankly, that was the least of his worries at the moment. He opened the door with a bell tinkling overhead, and held it open for Sara.

She ducked under his arm and gave him a smile for his efforts. TJ's Coffee Shop was a luxury she didn't often get to enjoy. She'd have to be on her best behavior, or something similar.

Mort turned around on the spinning barstool he sat on when he'd heard the bell ring. He spotted Tom and the paramedic from the night before, so he gave Tom a sly grin. It seemed that the lady hadn't spotted him yet, but Tom most certainly had. He was looking daggers Mort's way, a kind of warning. But a warning of what? Staying away from him and his date, or warning him not to go anywhere? Mort just shrugged and spun back around. It wasn't as if he would listen to anyone he didn't want to, much less the partner of the man who seemed dead set on his blood.

Tom quickly spotted Mort, and immediately turned Sara in the opposite direction, gently placing his hand between her shoulder blades and leading her to a table across the room. He sat facing Mort, with her back to him. That way he could keep an eye on both of them.

"Well, you're awful jumpy. See someone you don't like?" She arched a brow at Tom's jumpiness.

He smiled at her pleasantly. "Nope! Now then, you said you've been here before? What's good?"

Mort sipped on his espresso and read the paper, listening to their conversation. He wondered if he was the subject, or if Tom had even mentioned him.

"Well, it's all a matter of taste. Having made my own coffee for years now, I couldn't tell the difference between a…" She scanned the list. "A double mocha latte or an espresso. I will say I like the caramel frappachino," she finally answered. Sara glanced back at Tom to gauge his reaction. He pursed his lips and nodded in thought.

"Caramel sounds good." He looked at her and grinned. "What about food?" he asked almost eagerly.

"Breakfasty type foods, mostly," she admitted.

He nodded again. "What would you like? A pastry or a muffin, or is there something you'd rather have? You've got to be starving if you've just come off your shift. I mean, you don't exactly get breaks do you?"

"Well, you'd be right about that. You don't really think about it all that much if you're busy though. You just think about all the people you're saving. Aren't you going to have something?"

"Of course I am! I'm starved!" He exclaimed, blushing afterwards. "What are you going to have to eat?" he asked as a waitress came to their table.

"A Danish." She smirked, "And please, don't let me keep you from your breakfast."

He looked down, his face cherry red. He looked back up when the waitress cleared her throat. "Ah yes…Um…" He gestured to Sara.

She just laughed. "A cherry danish and a caramel frappachino for me."

The waitress wrote it down and then turned to look at Tom bored. "I'll uh…have…" he looked at a menu. "I'll have the uh…caramel frappachino and…uh…a muffin."

"What kind?" The waitress asked, staring straight ahead out the window.

"Uh…" He looked over the choices. "Blueberry?" He looked up at the teenager questioningly. She nodded and disappeared. Tom turned back to Sara and shrugged.

"So…" He started, a little unsure. "How long have you been a paramedic?" He was groping for conversation. He hadn't been on a date in months. In fact, he'd had no social life whatsoever since Sands had come under his supervision.

"Not long, I'm still in training. Or that's what they'd like to believe so they don't have to promote me," she rolled her eyes. "I work with assholes, don't mind me. What do you do?"

"Uh…" He was a little flustered by her response. "I-uh…work in the government. What do you mean you work with assholes? And what are you in training for?" He wanted to hear about her, not talk about himself and what he was doing in Maine. Sara neatly sidestepped his question. She no more wanted to talk about her job than he seemed to. She was simply more wily about it.

"Training to work in a hospital without having to be up all hours of the night. To do something productive on my own terms. Something the government should do, but clearly doesn't. You wouldn't have a say in that, would you?"

He smirked at her. "What if I did? Would you be willing to marry me then? Give you some leverage?" he gave her a goofy grin.

Mort happened to be taking a sip of his espresso when he heard Tom's 'proposal' and nearly choked on his drink. He began coughing and gagging, trying not to spew the sip he'd taken while laughing so hard. He slapped his chest a little, wincing a bit. Once his breathing was finally calmed, he turned sideways to see Sara's reaction.

"You know, much as I like you, I'm not that impressed. You're going to have to work a bit harder than just buying me a danish and hinting at world domination."

Mort couldn't help himself at the expression of utter defeat he saw on Tom's face. He burst out laughing, drawing nearly the whole shop's attention. Tom's flushed face glared at him.

"Actually…" he said turning to look at Sara. He was quite sensitive, and although he knew she was joking, the whole situation combined with Mort's laughter made him feel as if he were almost humiliated. He'd be damned if he'd let 'Farmer John' over there embarrass him. "Actually, he's my job." He nodded in the direction of Mort, who was laughing so hard, he was sliding on the vinyl barstool.

Sara spared a passing glance for Mort who was still laughing. He didn't look like anything special.

"Okay, you've got me. Notorious counterfeiter? Sexual predator? Why him?"

"That's confidential," Tom said sternly.

Mort sauntered over, his laughter under control at the moment. "Confidential to me, too." He told Sara. He looked at the bruise on her forehead and furrowed his brow. "What happened to you? Get in a fight with one of those 'assholes'?" he asked.

Now that she had a better view of him, her brain immediately leaped to the obvious. Judging by the fresh bandages, he'd gotten fixed up at the hospital, but she couldn't imagine why the hospital would let him out this early without an escort of some sort. He would have to stay over night for observation in case of infection at least, wouldn't he?

"I get it now. You're a brutalizer of women, aren't you," she answered coolly.

Mort frowned, and something in his eyes flashed. "Now thas' not very nice there lil' lady. Insinuatin' such things. I'm insulted," he drawled. Tom's eyes rolled into his head with annoyance.

"Goddammit Farmer John, get lost, would ya?" He sighed with annoyance and turned back to Sara. "I'm sorry about him." He turned to glare at Shooter.

Shooter stared straight out the window, seeing something that brought a broad grin to his face. Seeing the grin, Tom felt something crawl up his spine.

"Don't you go disappearin' on me again, you hear me Mort?"

Shooter just kept grinning staring outside. "How do you spose' I can do that, Mister Tom?" He looked down at him. "What with this here bum leg your frien' give me…I'm a just go have me a lil' fresh air if that's ok with you?"

Tom sighed and nodded. "Fine."

Shooter grinned toothily at Sara and nodded his head. "Nicen ta see ya. Hope yer manners improve the next time we meet. Wouldn' want somethin bad to happen ter ya…" With that, he limped with his head held high, out of the coffee shop. When he left, Sara rolled her eyes.

"That wasn't your friend, was it? Doesn't look as though you're very chummy."

Tom looked at her apologetically. "Hey, I'm sorry about him. He's not my friend, just my job. Hope he didn't ruin your breakfast," he said as the waitress placed their order before them.

"Are you kidding? I'm a paramedic. So what kind of a job is he that you can let him walk away?" As they dug into their food, she had the perfect view of the man hanging in front of the window with a wicked smirk on his face before he walked away.

Shooter had waited until he was sure Tom was preoccupied and wouldn't glance his way. When he saw them begin to eat their food, he began the short journey to the corner of the street where the bright yellow cab he'd called for waited. He hobbled down towards it, and slid into the backseat.

The driver, a heavyset man in his late 40's made a noise of irritation. "Took ya long enough! I been sittin' here for the past 10 minutes! We don't got all day! Where to buddy?"

Shooter frowned, not at all liking the man's tone of voice. "Listen here, buddy, I'm payin the tab, meanin' you do what I say you, do ya hear?" The cabby grumbled. "Good. Now I want you to take me to Bangor International Airport." At the cabby's protest, Shooter's voice got threatening. "Is there a problem? Cause if there is, I can surely solve it…" He leaned up and hissed into the cabby's ear. He grinned as the man swallowed hard, feeling the tip of the screwdriver pressing into his throat.

At Sara's words, Tom's head had whipped around, and he cursed, throwing down his napkin as he jumped up and ran out the door. He ran down the sidewalk just as the cab pulled away. The last thing he saw was Shooter's mad grin from the rear window.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Tom cursed, balling up his fists. "Sands is gonna fucking kill me," he muttered to himself shaking his head. He hadn't heard Sara follow him out.

"I distracted you, didn't I?" she asked softly.

Tom inhaled sharply and turned around to face her. "No, no it wasn't you." He moved closer to her. "Please don't think that. This isn't your fault, it's mine." _All my fault_, he thought to himself.

_Let's just face facts here_, she thought bitterly. "No, if I hadn't come with you, you would have been able to do your job. I knew you had to meet someone. I'm sorry."

"Goddamit! Don't be fucking sorry! It's not your fault!" He sighed annoyed with himself. "Shit, I'm sorry," he said softly, looking her in the eye. _Shit, I'm such a fuckup!_ He really liked her. He didn't want to screw things up, and yet, that's what was happening. Everything was going downhill, all because of that bastard!

"All right, I can see you're obviously stressed out and…I'll just let you go wallow in your misery alone, shall I?" she nodded. "Thanks for breakfast." Before Tom could try to call her back, she disappeared into a throng of tourists.

"Fuck! I'm going to kill him! I'm going to fucking kill him!" If Sands didn't kill Tom first. He sighed as he headed back towards the hospital to face the inevitable.

**Author Thanks: Merrie: **Mort may get no sympathy, but he did get the upper hand this time around. Not quite a breakdown for SJ, but we're getting there. Next chapter. ; ) Despite the fact that I didn't hear you talk about how fun it would be. Nope, just the wind. **Sandswich: **Yeah, that SJ just keeps getting beaten up, doesn't he? And uh… well, I wouldn't put it past Jeffrey to make a big appearance sooner or later, no siree.


	6. Damsels in Distress, Part 2

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own House don't own Merrie… we don't own _anything_. Think Robert Rodriguez will trade SJ for a stick of gum?

**Author's Notes: **Dedicated to the Fiend… er… Merrie. Who said House and SJ couldn't get along? You were right.

**Damsels in Distress, Part 2**

Sands had popped his fair share of pills before, but the more he thought about it, the less it made sense. There was no feeling in his feet. There was little feeling anywhere in his body. And pills for the sake of being cool wouldn't help his tarnished reputation.

He struggled to sit up, needing to at least be taller than Dr. House. And while Sands was upright, he figured he may as well find out what happened to his feet. He lifted a sheet, only to find a perfectly normal leg and foot below. Two, in fact. He glanced at House suspiciously before looking again beneath the sheets.

"Where'd my feet go? Did you screw on prosthetics when I wasn't looking or am I going to have a hell of a case of pins and needles in a few minutes?"

"I couldn't say what the other doctors have done to you. I'm only here to do what they've ordered: a psychiatric examination." The doctor shrugged and, looking at Sands, said blatantly, "I wouldn't put it past them to have just given your feet a good shot of some sort of anesthetic. Feel better though don't they?"

"I feel like a fucking invalid," Sands' eyes narrowed dangerously. "And that's one thing I have no patience for. I want to be fixed and get the fuck out of here. My partner's caught my enemy by now, and all I want to do is torture the hell out of him and send him on his merry way. Into the Company's loving arms, of course. Is that so wrong?"

Dr. House looked at Sands skeptically. "Did the _company_ teach you to be so loving too?"

"Well, I'd hardly call my loving, _love_, you see. I'd call it a strong loathing towards all things living, if you don't mind," Sands' mouth quirked into a smile. Hell, if he was going to be evaluated, he might as well have fun with it.

House's eyebrows furrowed. "I see," he murmured and made a note on his notepad to later put on his infamous white board. "And why do you feel that way?" He asked, ever the perfect psychiatrist he clearly wasn't. It wasn't as if he gave a damn anyway.

"Well, I've been feeling this way-" Sands broke off as he saw a flash of reddish hair flash by his door. "Who's that?"

"She's a person. I would've thought you'd be able to see that. Do you need your eyes checked?"

Sands shivered, but recovered quickly. "Is she a doctor?"

"If you could call her that, sure, be my guest," House snorted. He made a mental note to record the shudder at a later date.

"Then tell her to get her ass in here and give me a second opinion."

"So I'm not good enough, you need Merrie to give you advice."

"Yes, Merrie, fine," Sands reclined in bed, trying to find his balance. He needed to get out of there. House took note of the tiredness, but obliged with Sands' request.

"Merrie, you've been enlisted in the fight against psychoticness. Patient's request," House stuck his head out the door to catch the red head's attention.

Merrie turned at the voice of her favorite doctor. She grinned at his words. "I'm wanted? To fight psychoticness?" She laughed almost manically as she walked into the room. She looked Sands over and crossed her arms, frowning.

"Hm."

Sands scowled. "I'm not a slab of beef."

"Tsk, tsk. I'm not all that hungry really." She looked over to House. "What's the diagnosis, or have you reached one yet?"

House smiled sourly. "Well, let's just say he's not the most cooperative of patients and conforming to my demands."

Sands grinned sweetly.

Merrie just shook her head. "Now why won't you cooperate with the good doctor here? Would you cooperate with me? I know I'm easier on the eyes but really, he's not all that bad."

"A regular troll," House rolled his eyes. Merrie raised her eyebrows at him, then returned her attention to Sands.

"What exactly is the problem here? Why do you need to see a psychiatrist? From the six words I've heard from your mouth, you seem perfectly sane to me. You certainly look sane, but we all know looks can be deceiving." She gave House a pointed look.

"You know, that's exactly what I said?" Sands nodded seriously. "Honestly, from the way they tie me up and drug me and do all sorts of horrible things to me, you'd think that I was some kind of dastardly criminal. Whadduya think Doc? Am I a dastardly criminal?" Sands' pointed look was directed at House.

"I think you're a ham, not beef, and you need to be let go before you drive the nursing staff insane as well. But that's just me. A degree in disease diagnosis and nobody believes a thing I say anyway," House grumbled.

"Should we?" Merrie asked innocently.

"He can't walk," House pointed out sarcastically. "That's where you were supposed to come in."

"Ah yes…" She went to lift the covers at the foot of his bed. "All they did really was inject something to loosen the tendons. They were just strained." She pinched one of his big toes and, seeing no reaction, grinned. "This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none, and this little piggy-"

Sands slapped her hand away with a warning look.

"My tendons seized up at the same exact time. On both feet. You sure about that, chica?"

She shrugged. "That's what the EMT's said. You're not in pain anymore are you?" she asked.

"No... quite the contrary. I feel abso-fucking-lutely nothing," Sands hissed.

"If I were you I wouldn't be complaining. The numbness will wear off soon enough, and you'll feel as though your feet are the size of clown shoes." She chuckled, "I'll have to come round to see you up on them."

"I had frost bite! What the fuck happened to the frost bite?"

"Oh…yes…that…" She looked down at his left foot. "We had to amputate one of your toes…" She looked at him dead serious.

The color drained from his face. The muscles in his body clenched simultaneously.

"Tell me you're fucking kidding me."

She shook her head sadly. "It's the middle one, oddly enough. Kinda looks like a frog's foot. Like it's webbed," she mused.

"Oh… my…Christ…" he whispered. He'd been knocked out…sedated against his will…sliced open…_amputation_. He made a gurgling sound low in his throat, trying to come up with something to say.

"If it makes you feel even the tiniest bit better, it's not as if you use your middle toe for very much," House shrugged. "You'll be back on your feet in no time. Assuming, you eat your green vegetables and so forth."

The corners of Merrie's lips turned up a little bit, but she quickly frowned as she noticed Sands' restlessness and anxiety about the loss of a limb. "Hey. Hey!" She moved up on his other side, by his head, and waved her hand in front of his face, trying to get his attention. "I was just kidding. Your middle toe is still intact. The frost bite wasn't serious enough for the need to amputate. Helloooo?" He didn't seem to be listening or even hearing her, despite the fact that she was practically speaking into his ear.

_Dr. Adams' big, horsy teeth were glinting in the bright, reflected light above Sands' head. He was talking about the procedure, oblivious to the fact that his patient wasn't listening. Sands was trying very hard not to freak out. The diagrams and graphic images of things that could go wrong were giving his stomach the impression that it was okay to puke. In truth, it probably was. _

_"This is a very dangerous procedure, Mr. Sands."_

_"But you won't be cutting anything off."_

_"On the contrary, you might never be able to see again."_

_"I'll take that chance."_

_"You died! You were officially dead on the operating table! They had to take the defibrillator to your heart! It stopped, you were dead, dead, dead, dead, dead!"_

"Dead…?"

House traded glances with Merrie, wondering what she was making of this phenomenon. Merrie was looking at Sands warily.

"You're not dead, you're alive." She glanced at House. "You're the psychiatrist."

"No I'm not," House commented off handedly, before peeling Sands' lower eyelid down to get a look at the pupil. It looked relatively normal, nothing suggesting brain damage. House almost suspected he saw some scarring on the cornea, but Sands closed his eyes before House could confirm it. "Hey, mind getting yourself under control here...?" House paused. He didn't know the guy's name. He looked to Merrie, hoping she might.

"Sands." She remarked, looking at House, but really speaking to the man in the bed. "Sands, snap out of it!" She snapped her fingers near his ear, causing his eyes to fly open.

"Sands? That's not his first name. People respond to their first name." House checked Sands' pulse, noticing the jump in heart rate at the auditory stimuli.

"Not this guy. I'm guessing bad childhood. But if you want the first name, it's Sheldon."

"Watch," House smirked. He leaned in close to Sands' ear. "Wakey, wakey, Sheldon. You have to wake up and say hello to the nice people by your bedside."

Sands whimpered and tried to burrow under the covers. Merrie's eyebrows furrowed as she watched the reaction from Sands' given name spoken aloud. She shrugged. "I suppose it's not hurting him. Getting more of a reaction than I was anyways..." She looked down at Sands who was now almost cringing. "Wakey, wakey Sheldon," she whispered.

"So killing me's not enough?" he snarled from his position under the covers. "Why don't you drill my fucking eyes out while you're at it!"

House frowned. That was the second reference to eyes he'd seen this patient react to. He would like very much to know what was so traumatizing to this man about eyes.

"I don't know; would you like us to? I'm sure we can get a surgeon on it right away," House shrugged. Sands made and animal noise, but didn't move.

Merrie just shook her head, listening to the bickering between the two men. "You two act like children!"

She leaned over Sands and lifted an eyelid to examine one of his eyes-just to be sure. Her heart leapt into her throat when Sands' hand grabbed her wrist in a death grip.

"Don't go near my fucking eyes," he hissed. He twisted her wrist viciously, causing her to gasp aloud. He never saw House's cane descend on his hand from above. The cane smacked him smartly on the hand, eliciting an enraged gasp from Sands.

"Look, I'm fascinated with your eye fetish, I really am, but you're going to have to take your hand off the duckling. The doctor," he amended quickly. "They're pretty, yes, but they're just for looking, not for touching."

Merrie managed a smirk through her grimace of pain. She rubbed her wrist vigorously, but was still concerned more about the stubborn brute lying in bed.

"Is there something wrong with your eyes?" She asked looking from House to Sands. She watched his face as he answered; looking for any signs that could be construed as pain.

"No! Nothing! I'm fucking fine! Go away!" Sands yelled, crawling back under the covers again. House discretely made the universal sign of the whacko. Merrie gave him a stern look and gently peeled back the covers.

"Why do you keep hiding under there?" she asked, being the psychiatrist since Dr. House didn't seem to be.

"Because maybe you might go the fuck away!"

"Why do you want us to go away so desperately?" She looked over at House, hoping for something-anything-to help her get him to communicate.

"What do you think?" said the muffled voice under the covers.

"I think you're certifiably crazy and in need of psychological help but you're too damn stubborn to accept any," House offered.

"Fuck you!"

"Told you he doesn't love me," House frowned. Merrie just rolled her eyes.

"Who does?" she smirked at him. "Will you please just let him do his evaluation? Get him off both our backs?"

"Tell him to go fuck himself and I might consider."

"Well, that certainly helps my cause. Enjoys watching and or listening to kinky sex," House mock wrote on his clipboard. He didn't enjoy working with patients on this level, and while this guy was his most amusing case this week, House still wanted this to end by any means necessary.

"Would you please just be serious for ten seconds and I promise you I'll see that you never have to see him again? Which is more than I can say for myself!" She gave House a pointed look.

"You signed up to heal this guy? Are you stupid or do you just think he's hot? Tell me honestly." House cocked an eyebrow.

"I was talking to him!" She hissed between her teeth. "But now that you mention it..." She smirked, anticipating a reaction from Sands. "He is kinda cute." She gave House a knowing smile as Sands shifted under the covers, his ego having been stroked.

"Then maybe you ought to just stop giving me that suggestive look of yours. It just screams 'I want you.' Might want to work on that. Unless you're not telling me something, of course."

Merrie sighed in exasperation and threw up her arms. "Hey buddy." She shook Sands roughly. "If you don't want to be alone with Psycho shrink over there, you'd best come out and converse with him." Her face was tinged a bright pink as she thought about what House had said.

_Does he really see how I feel?_ she wondered nervously. She was anxious to be out of his company; it was a bit unnerving.

"Tom will bail me out," Sands said airily. _I hope._

"For your sake, he'd better, whoever he is," House groaned, pushing himself to his feet. "I'd hate to have you spend another minute in this hospital with the rampant, horny doctors around here."

Tom shuffled through the door having heard the last comment. "What? Oh dear Lord! What has he done gotten himself into this time?" Tom shook his head, attempting to make light of what seemed to be a tense situation. Indeed, it was going to be getting much tenser very soon.

"Well, your friend here seems to have a problem with his eyes, but because he's being a pain in the ass and not opening up, I couldn't tell you what kind of a problem or why. You've got yourself a moody, temperamental, possibly depressed friend. If I felt prescribing Prozac would help, I would, but I know he's not going to take it so I'm not killing a tree to tell him he can throw good pills down the drain. You might as well check him out of this place before he has a seizure. Does that sound like a plan? Because I think it does," House smiled emotionlessly.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up just a minute there Doc!" He looked from Sands to House. "Now just tell me what the hell is going on! What's wrong with your eyes?" He turned to Sands, then back to House. "And why does he need Prozac?" Tom's eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he glanced from Sands, to House, and back again.

"Because your friend isn't quite all there..." House tapped his temple, "in the head. You know what I mean. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get going. Need a jump on my next psycho case." He nodded briskly, popped another little white pill, and took his leave.

"Asshole," Sands growled.

Tom watched House leave, then turned back to Sands. "I take it you had a nice eval?" Tom smirked as he moved to stand near Sands' bed. But not too close.

"Fuck you, Tom," he sighed tiredly. He saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at Merrie, who still hadn't left. "And what are you doing?"

She stood off to the side. "Making sure you don't harm yourself." She grinned at him sweetly. Tom smirked and walked over to her.

"I'm Tom," he said, extending his hand. She nodded.

"Merrie." She didn't shake his hand.

Tom's grin faltered a bit at the coolness of the doctor, his hand falling back to his side. He went to stand near Sands' bed. "Did she ever tell you what was wrong with your feet?" He asked Sands, ignoring the fact that she was standing several yards away and very capable of answering the question herself.

"Tendons, who knew? Now stop hitting on the help and get me out of here, Tommy boy." When Tom moved forward to help, Sands noticed the distinct lack of a prisoner. "Tom, where's Mort?"

Tom frowned. "Uhm…" He looked away, catching Merrie's smirk as she left the room.

"I don't think I heard you the first time. Where's Mort?" Sands' voice got soft, the key sign he was getting dangerously pissed off.

"Uhm…yeah…you see…" He took a step back, scratching the back of his neck while avoiding Sands' stare.

"Tom. What happened?"

"Well he just went out for a cigarette and he was limping and there was no way he could run away so I just sat in the coffee shop and then we noticed him limping rather quickly to the end of the block…" He was babbling, he knew, but he'd faced Sands' anger many times before, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

"_We_?"

"Uh yeah…" he grinned sheepishly. "You remember Sara right?"

"Who?"

Tom nodded his head to the side. "You know…the paramedic from last night…?"

"What about her?" Sands' eyes narrowed, though he knew what was coming.

"Well, I kinda ran into her in the lobby and well…She came along with me to the coffee shop." He gave Sands a feeble smile.

"You asked her to come with you to a…coffee shop." Sands knew that an effective interrogation technique was to repeat everything the suspect said back to him. He'd get confused eventually and trip over a lie. The hard part was remembering everything that had already been said. That was why it was Sands' second favorite technique, behind torture.

"Well, no-er yes-but that's where Mort was!" Tom frowned. He hated it when Sands interrogated him like he was a criminal.

"You took an innocent with you to face a dangerous criminal. Smart move, Tom, very intelligent."

"No-I…" He began to protest, when he realized what Sands was doing. "Oh come off it! He wouldn't hurt a fly!" _Unless it bit him,_ Tom thought to himself.

"You didn't see his eyes, did you, Tom?"

"What?" He thought back to the coffee shop, when Mort's eyes had flashed. "Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?" he asked, confused.

"You don't realize he's schizophrenic, do you?"

"What? He's a schizo? How do you know that? And since when have you been qualified to make such judgments? Dr. House didn't see anything wrong with him or I'm certain he would've requested him being admitted."

"Dr. House is a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist. I majored in psychology, I know these things. That automatically makes me a better psychiatrist than that House guy. Mort's not really schizo, though; he's got MPD. What you automatically think of as schizophrenia."

"What? What?" Tom scratched his head furiously, knowing Sands was trying to confuse him. "You-you just said he is schizophrenic, and now he's not?" His face was turning red from frustration.

"He could be schizo; I never got a chance to screw with his head. I know for sure he has MPD. Something everybody seems to want to call 'schizophrenia.' I didn't know if you were keeping up with you psychological disorders," Sands smirked.

Tom frowned and shook his head. "I really don't care. Neither _one_ of you is sane!" He changed the subject abruptly before Sands could protest. "When did they say we can get out of here?" He was beginning to feel antsy himself.

"They didn't," Sands sighed.

"Oh…" Tom looked at the door. "Should I call the doc back in or get ol' Betty Sue?"

"Tom, now's really not the time to be thinking with your dick."

"What?" He looked at Sands questioningly.

"Why do you want Merrie or Betty Sue back, then?"

"Uh…to find out when you can get out of here perhaps?" he said sarcastically.

"Why not ask Dr. House?"

"Because he's not your doctor?"

"I haven't got a doctor. That Merrie was some random chick who was wandering around outside my door."

"I see. So how did you find out what was wrong with your feet?"

"I still don't know. They're lying. I know it. Doctors are fucking chronic liars."

Tom rolled his eyes sighing heavily. "Ok, doctors are liars, but how are your feet feeling?"

"I wouldn't know, I've got no feeling in them," Sands snapped.

"Ok!" He held up his hands. Then he began to think about it, and a grin spread across his face. "So if I cut off one of your toes…?"

He moved towards Sands' feet with an evil smirk. Sands casually picked up the plastic fork from his untouched food.

"You want to do that, Tommy boy? I like you, but not that much."

Tom couldn't help but laugh at Sands' weapon of choice. Sure it was one of the few items available to him, but it was still comical. He didn't stop moving towards the foot of Sands bed though. When he reached Sands feet, he grabbed one of them, making certain to steer clear of the fork. He pinched the foot as hard as he could, and watched as the color slowly began to return to Sands' foot.

Sands frowned, watching his toe go from dark maroon to bright white. Tom glanced over to find out where Sands was looking, when the bedridden agent stabbed Tom in the side with the fork. It didn't pierce skin, but it did hurt.

Tom leaped into the air. "Oh shit! Ow!" He cried out, rubbing the spot where the fork had stabbed him. He glared at Sands. "I'm trying to get you out of here! You can't go nowhere with numb feet, dumbass!"

Sands thought for a minute. He saw two ways out, a wheel chair and an only slightly more appealing option.

"You can carry me out."

"Hell no! There's no way I'm gonna-" He was cut off by having to jump back as the fork came towards him again. "Fine! But how're you gonna get anywhere? I can't carry you everywhere!"

"Then just hope I get better before bingo by 6, right?"

Tom just sighed. "Let's avoid another strip show though, eh?" He tossed Sands his jeans, and turned his back towards him.


	7. When It Couldn't Get Any Worse

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer**: Whoever pops up in this episode we probably don't own either.

**Author's Notes: **Wicked sorry about the long wait. Computer problems, other fic problems, life problems, and so forth. Don't worry, we'll get back on board soon enough. Right now, in fact. Honor Roll at the end.

**When It Couldn't Get Any Worse**

"Tom, what the fuck were you thinking?"

Tom gave Sands a sidelong glance as he drove along I-95 heading towards the Police Station to talk to the sheriff. "What? What are you talking about?" He asked hesitantly, knowing exactly what he was asking about, but stalling nonetheless.

"You let my catch get away. I reiterate. What the fuck were you thinking? Or is it that you were thinking about fucking?"

"Sands...It was an accident, ok? I know you don't take too kindly to mistakes, especially made by yourself…" He gave Sands another sidelong glance. "But I screwed up ok? I let him get away."

"Who said anything about me?" Sands hissed. Tom opened his mouth to give a thorough explanation, but Sands waved him off. "Where the fuck is he heading?"

"I don't know...he took off in a cab."

"What. Way. Was. The. Cab. Heading?"

"Uh, south I think?" Tom shrugged his shoulders.

"Thinking isn't good enough, Tom! Remember!"

He took one hand off the steering wheel to rub the back of his neck. "Yeah, he was going south. Or no! North, he was heading north. I remember now."

"Where was he going?"

Tom slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. "_I don't know_!"

"Where do you think he was going?"

"How the hell should I know? You're the one he made the 'connection' with! Now stop asking me all these fucking questions! You're giving me a fucking migraine!"

Sands reached across the seat and gripped Tom roughly by the collar. "Listen to me close. Now is not the time to freak out, Tom. You've got to bag me my criminal since you lost him in the first place. You're going to do as I say, Tom, because I'm an Ameri_can_," he emphasized the 'can,' "You don't fuck with Ameri_cans_."

Tom lifted his shoulder, pinning Sands' hand between his shoulder and his head in an effort to get Sands to release his death grip. "How should I know where the hell he went? You know him better than I do! It's your goddamn case anyways!" He tried to pull away from Sands' grip, but to no avail. "If you don't let go of me we're gonna get into another accident and you'll have to go back to the hospital and more than likely have another visit with Dr. House," he threatened. Sands lost his patience.

"Fuck House, and fuck his incompetence! Tom, if you were a pissed off alter ego, where the fuck would you _GO_!"

Tom thought only a second before he spoke. When he did he looked Sands directly in the eyes. "To the source," he said simply.

Sands let go of Tom's shirt, but his eyes were still sparking in anger. "Right. And how would you get there?"

Tom felt a bit more confident since Sands had released him, despite his headache. "Well gee, I dunno, genius! How would you get to the source?"

"I'm asking you, Einstein. This was your screw up, you're fixing it."

Tom blew out his breath in annoyance and raked a hand through his short hair. "He's probably catching a plane," h shrugged. "That's my guess: attempting to get as far away from us as he can, as quickly as possible, but his curiosity is getting the best of him so he's making a pit stop on his way out of the country. Fleeing as it were."

"Where is this pit stop?"

"D.C. of course. He knows you're-we're-CIA, so he's no doubt heading to HQ to find out what he can. The only question is, 'Is he smart enough to infiltrate the CIA?'" He smirked at his question. "Being around you for a few days, he's probably assumed that it would be no problem." He snorted in attempt to cover his amusement.

"Maybe I didn't make it clear how serious this is. If we don't catch this guy, someone's going to come after _me_! I'm going to get a desk job and I'm going to be pissed. One more jab like that, I'll find my own fucking way to Bangor, capiche?"

"Bangor?"

"Bangor, fuckmook. He's catching a plane in Bangor to Washington to find out why he's wanted. The CIA will capture him, and he'll be up Shit's Creek."

Tom frowned. "Isn't that what _your_ objective was? To capture him and turn him in?"

"Tell me, Tom, what kind of an idiot would I look like if I lost him in Maine only to have him wander into the Company's clutches?"

Tom grimaced, having no answer for that. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Tell you to drive faster."

"We're going to Bangor? But there's no way we can catch him; he's got a good hour head start."

"Don't worry, Tom." Sands seemed calm. Eerily so. "Everything will be taken care of."

The truck gained a little more speed as it hurtled towards Bangor.

XXX

Mort stood outside Bangor International Airport staring at the glass doors, vaguely aware of how he'd gotten there. The last thing he remembered was sitting in the coffee shop. One minute he was sipping espresso, and the next he was at Bangor International with a yellow cab roaring off like a bat out of hell.

He stood outside for a few minutes before going in. Once amidst the hustle and bustle of the airport, he froze, rooted to the spot and unsure of where to go or what to do next.

His appearance warranted the stares of many, as if he were some sort of tourist attraction. His eyebrows furrowed as he glanced down at his rumpled clothes. Not only were his clothes wrinkled, but they reeked of a mixture of sweat, urine, and lake water. His own nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench that was emanating from him.

First things first…Even though Mort was anything but the epitome of good personal hygiene, something had to be done. He spotted a gift shop off to his left and headed towards it. He tried-to no avail-to ignore the looks. He turned and met one stare, a well dressed businessman who looked at Mort scornfully. Mort averted his eyes and met those of a young woman who quickly looked away almost fearfully.

Mort scowled. _Why do these people despise me so?_ he wondered to himself.

'_Might'n have somethin' ter do with the fact you smell like cow piss.'_

"Just shut up!" Mort said, which sent more curious glances his way. He ducked his head and spoke softer. "If I want your opinion, I'll _ask_ for it," he gritted his teeth.

As he entered the gift shop, he spotted a rack of tourist shirts with 'Bangor' emblazoned across the front. He quickly chose the least conspicuous one: a dull gray one with the airport's logo on it. Finding pants was another issue. All the store had were swimming trunks and pajama pants. Mort didn't particularly want to walk around Bangor International Airport in bright yellow swim trunks, so he browsed the pajamas. He finally settled on a comfortable pair of navy and green plaid flannel pants.

He grabbed a few other necessities such as a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a comb, and several packets of extra-strength Pain-Aid. Both his shoulder and his thigh were throbbing something awful. After paying, he took his purchases to the nearest restroom. He locked himself in and proceeded to remove his shirt. As a toilet flushed behind him, he whipped around, clutching his smelly shirt to his chest in an attempt to cover himself. As a man emerged from one of the cubicles, Mort's face turned bright red, and the other man's eyes bugged out of his head in surprise. The man quickly washed his hands and mumbled an apology before running out of the bathroom. It took him a moment of fumbling with the lock before he was able to burst out as if he were suffocating. After the man left, Mort locked the door once again and then approached each cubicle, cautiously pushing open each of the doors.

Satisfied that he was alone, he let out a huge sigh of relief and took off the remainder of his clothing and bathed himself as best as possible in an airport public restroom. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and slid into his new clothing feeling refreshed and renewed, despite the acute pain in his left shoulder.

He rummaged through his shopping bag until he found what he was hunting for, and then he popped four of the extra-strength Pain-Aids. He stared at his visibly strained face in the mirror, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. Mort sighed, tossing his meager belongings into the bag and slipped out of the bathroom, a new man in more ways than one.

Shooter limped up to the ticket counter and gave the airline representative a toothy grin. "Hi there missus."

The girl smiled pleasantly. "Good day sir, where are you flying today?"

"I need the soonest flight out to D.C." Shooter spoke confidently, but his face wore a look of confusion. Mort spoke up, contradicting Shooter. "Now wait just a minute!"

"What's the problem, sir?"

He stared straight at her, yet he wasn't seeing her and neither was he talking to her. "Just _why_ do I need to go to D.C.?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't know, sir." The ticket lady looked politely befuddled.

He continued to converse with himself, not having heard the lady. "_Because_ Morty! That's where CIA headquarters are! Dontcha wanna find out why that psycho's after you?" Shooter rolled his eyes in annoyance in Mort's confused face. "They don got to have a good nough reason for the CIA to be on your tail. Face it Morty-yer a fugitive. Aintcha just a lil bit curious?" Mort's face twisted into a sick smile.

"F-fugitive?" she whispered. Oh God. This wasn't good. Not good at all. She discreetly pressed the security button under the desk and continued to smile weakly.

Mort sighed. "Fine! A uh...one way ticket to D.C." Mort turned his attention to the girl, and watched as her hand snaked under the counter. "Shit! Look at the mess you caused now! Goddammit! Why can't you discuss things with me before you act?" He saw several security guards moving in subtly. "Great! Now we're really fucked!" Mort moaned, and turned to face the security guards coming towards him.

"You jest let me handle this Morty." Shooter said calmly, reaching for the pen that lay on the counter. He stuck it out in front of him as a weapon, aimed at the guards that now surrounded him. "Anyone of youns move and I'll shove this so hard through your ear that it'll come out the other!" he threatened, his eyes flashing wildly between the three guards surrounding him.

The ticket lady paled. Oh Goh oh God oh God...

XXX

"Son of a bitch," Sands hissed. The truck had screeched to a halt in front of the airport and screams were filtering out of the glass doors. And Sands couldn't go running towards it like he used to.

_Cripple._

"There's shit going down. Tom, go get a fucking baggage cart! You're taking me with you," Sands growled.

Tom would've laughed had it not been for the terror on several people's faces as they ran out of the airport. He heard one person shout about a holdup or something. That could only mean one thing-their man was causing all kinds of hell to break loose.

He leapt out of his truck and ran inside the glass doors to grab a baggage cart. What he saw at the airline ticket counter, made him freeze. There must've been about half a dozen security guards, guns trained at one focal point. Tom shook himself from his stupor and rushed back out to his truck where Sands was waiting. Sands all but fell out of the cab and onto the waiting cart, cocking his gun and waving it in the air.

"Go, go, go, go charge, you stupid fuckmook!"

"I'm going as fast as I fucking can!" Tom shouted, pushing the cart with Sands on it as fast as he could through the people that were rushing out of Bangor International. Tom pushed Sands all the way to the half dozen guards-which had by then grown to twice as many-then bent over to catch his breath. He'd let Sands take it over from there.

Sands got to his knees and fired the gun in the air. People screamed and ducked, security guards whirled wildly in search of the cause of the blast. It didn't take them long to notice the crazy man kneeling on a baggage cart. They were torn between covering the man with the pen or the infinitely more dangerous man with the gun.

"Everybody calm the fuck down! There's no need to fear." Sands grinned. "I'm going to take my captive and leave, that sound okay to you?" he nodded at a pissed off cop.

"Oh dear Lord..." Tom muttered, closing his eyes in a silent prayer that the security guards didn't fire at them. When attention had been averted from him, Shooter-or possibly Mort-shimmied away from the crowd and attempted to blend into horde of terrified travelers.

Tom had opened his eyes at that point. He was taller than most of the security, allowing him to see over them to the void where Mort had seconds before been standing. _Oh shit..._His eyes scanned the crowds frantically, finally settling on the mop of dirty blonde hair. He began pushing the baggage cart again quickly in the opposite direction, almost causing Sands to lose his balance on his knees. He followed Mort's head, unbeknownst to Sands.

The security guards just stared after them a bit baffled and annoyed.

"Fuck, Tom, warn me next time you do that!" Sands yelled.

"I'm not going to be the one to blame _this_ time!" he hissed. "You see that bit of blonde over there?" He pointed in front of him. "That's our-_your_-man. That you can't seem to keep tabs on." He muttered the last part to himself. But he didn't count on Sands' superior hearing.

"Now who the fuck keeps putting me in institutions to 'cure' me only to distract the hell out of me?" he snarled.

"Who's the one fucking up their feet worse than they already are?"

Mort heard the two's banter, and continued to dodge between the crowd. He had to get out of there, get away to D.C. and _answers_. He stopped abruptly, and turned around just as the baggage cart came hurtling through the crowd. Mort had enough time for his eyes to widen in shock before the cart collided with his wounded leg. He saw red as he pitched forward toward the man he was trying to escape.

"Aw, he's tired," Sands grunted as the blonde man collapsed on him. He grabbed Mort tightly around the shoulders and hit him with the butt of his trusty pistol to make sure Mort wouldn't be going anywhere. He dragged Mort aboard and signaled for Tom to turn around. Tom had gotten got lucky, but Sands wasn't going to let the issue go again. He could remember another time, not involving feet, when Tom had persuaded him to check into a hospital. Sands wasn't going to let Tom get away with it again.

"Dammit Sands! He's already in enough fucking pain! Did you not see his face when I ran into him?" Tom shook his head as he turned around whilst the crowd of people stood staring. "Christ man! We're gonna have to go back to the fucking hospital again if you keep this up!"

"Turn him over to House. See how he likes it," Sands replied without emotion.

As they reached his truck, Tom frowned in thought. "Maybe later, I'm fucking worn out!"

"Yeah, losing my captive when I trust him with you is hard work."

"Just-just shut up and get in the fucking truck!" He opened the door for Sands. He glared at Tom petulantly.

"Oh come off it, man! It's been over 2 fucking hours since we were at the hospital; they said the numbness would wear off by then! If nothing else use your fucking arms!" He was getting tired of babying the rookie agent.

"Are you really that dense?"

Tom glared at him. "Fine," was all he said, then reached under Sands' arms and hefted him quite roughly into the truck. "Take him too." He hefted the lighter man up and shoved him onto Sands' lap, slamming the door shut.

He shoved the baggage cart towards the glass doors-not hard enough to break them, but it did make a rather loud 'clank' as it hit. Tom watched it and shrugged his shoulders as he went around to the drivers' side of his truck and opened the door. Sands wasn't giving up. He shoved Mort roughly to the floor and twisted to face Tom.

"I guess you really are stupid, Tom. Let me congratulate you for putting up this front of ingeniousness for as long as you have. You fooled me, but now I've got your number. Come clean, Tom."

Tom sighed as he slid in his seat and started the engine, "I'm not in the mood for yet another argument, just _please_ get him off the fucking floor!"

"Why don't you marry him, if you care about him so damn much?"

"Goddamit Sands! I just-Argh!" The thought died with a sound of irritation. "You need to get a fucking heart," he said while pulling out into the traffic to leave the airport.

Sands' mouth twitched. "That's rich."

"Just shut up while I try to think here!" He'd reached the gate where he had to pay for "parking" at the airport. After he'd paid, he drove past the booth at a slow pace. Although he wanted anything but to hear Sands' voice, he didn't know where they were going. "Where are we taking him now?"

"Pull over."

"What? Why?" Tom glanced over at Sands confused, but he didn't pull over.

"_Pull the fuck over_!" Sands yelled.

Tom jerked across 3 lanes of traffic to the shoulder of the road. He turned wide eyed to look at Sands. "Just what the hell are we doing on the side of the fucking road?"

"You and I are going to talk and you're not going to wheedle out of it."

Tom closed his eyes and dragged his hand down his face before smacking the steering wheel with it. "_Shit._You made me pull off the road to have a little 'chat' with you?" He shook his head wearily, "Christ Sands, you're gonna get us _all_ killed!"

"Well, if I tried to talk to you on the road, you would have killed us anyway. I'd rather take the chance that will pay off better in the long run, thank you. You're avoiding the issue."

"Which is?"

_Yeah, Sheldon, my boy. What is the issue?_

"You wouldn't happen to remember a Doctor Adams, would you?"

Tom's brows furrowed. "I don't believe so..."

"That's odd. Because I do. You hired him for me. Claimed he was the best."

"Oh," Tom managed before swallowing hard. He had no idea what Sands was getting to, but he had the feeling that it wasn't good.

"Am I jogging any memories, Tommy Boy?"

Tom just shook his head. He didn't know the full details of Sands' experience with said doctor. Nor did he want to know.

"Dr. Adams…Shortish guy, thinning hair. Horsey teeth. Ugly bastard. Optometrist."

_Way to drop the bomb..._

At that word, Tom's "memory" returned. "wh-what did he exactly do to you-your eyes?" _Oh Lord, he didn't want to know!_

"He fixed them, somewhat."

Tom clamped his mouth shut, and just nodded, "C-can we go now?" His forehead began to break out in a sweat.

"Hm…no. Why would I bring this up, Tom? Any ideas?"

Tom shook his head, "Where are we going?"

"Tom. Put the clues together. Being a suthun gentleman like yerself, I know you're a bit slow, but you were never this fucking slow. Much as I hate the fuckmook, what did Dr. House say?"

Tom frowned and turned to face Sands. "Huh? What does Dr. House have to do with Dr. Adams?"

Sands sighed. "If I weren't so sure you'd turn tail and fucking run, I'd say fuck it and let you ask the questions. Do you have any idea why I hate doctors?"

"Bad experience?" Tom smirked a little, but it faltered as he saw the seriousness in which Sands was staring at him.

"Put two and two together."

"So...what exactly happened with Dr. Adams that's got you so petrified?"

"He fucking lied to me."

Tom looked utterly confused. "You don't like hospitals and doctors because one _lied_ to you?" He was trying to make sense of it all.

"I asked him quite plainly if the meds he had to give me would react with anything I was taking. I didn't mention what I was taking, but I made mention of the kind of drug. He lied. He said it'd be fine. He gave me the anesthetics. The procedure got shot to hell."

Tom looked at him still confused. "What were you taking? What happened, how did the procedure get 'shot to hell'?"

"No need for you to know about my private drug existence. Long story short, the meds reacted. Stopped my heart. I died."

Tom just stared out him for a moment, his mouth gaping open. "You-they revived you?" His eyes blinked rapidly several times in shock.

"No, I was buried and am still rotting in the ground," Sands rolled his eyes. "Of course they fucking revived me! You're not listening to me. I died!"

_What's the point of this?_

"Because of you, Tom!"

_And... what's that point?_

"Me?" Tom looked angry for a moment. "They wouldn't have given you the fucking chance to become an active agent if you couldn't fucking see!"

"I could have worn contacts! You're always sending me to a fucking doctor and Christ, I can't handle it! It nearly cost me Mort!" That hurt. That hurt a lot. Not capable? No...Sands was capable. He could handle it.

_When there aren't visions of knives and blood dancing in your subconscious._

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He clutched his head in agony.

Tom was in shock. He just watched as Sands grabbed at his head. Then very cautiously, Tom reached out a hand to touch Sands on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. "Sands, it's ok. You're ok. We've got Mort..."

Sands tore away from Tom. He had to sort this out. _Not good, not good, not good, notgoodnotgoodnotgood..._

_Nope, it's not good, is it?_ The voice was cheerful. _The Company would probably nail you for multiple personalities before they skewered you for bad eyes. Life's a bitch, innit?_

Sands shuddered. He remembered having something prowling at the back of his head for a long time, but he never really expected it to be..._something_. Now it was talking to him and beating him in the skull with things he wanted no part of. He couldn't break down now. Not now, not ever.

_Good luck with that, _the voice offered.

"Sands!" Tom shouted. When Sands had began to shudder, Tom's hand whipped out and slapped him across the face. Not the smartest thing to do, but it did warrant his attention. When Sands fixed a hard stare on him, Tom swallowed before speaking. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked weakly-almost fearfully-not exactly wanting to know the answer, but needing to nonetheless.

Sands opened his mouth. "I-"

_What_ is_ wrong with you, Sheldon?_

"-don't know."

Tom slumped against the drivers' door and rubbed his face. "Christ. What do we do now?" He spoke his thoughts aloud.

"I don't know."

_Doesn't that feel good._

"I don't know."

_You get to relinquish all responsibility-_

"I don't know."

_-and not being the one to blame-_

"I don't know."

_-dumping everything onto the shoulders of the only friend-_

"I don't know."

_-who gives a damn about you?_

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!"

While Sands was having his internal debates, Tom was really starting to freak right out. He'd gotten out of his truck, unknown to Sands, and made his way to the passenger side of the truck. When he'd yelled, Tom wrenched open the door and Sands tumbled out. Tom held him up as best as he could, and stumbled with him to the grass off the highway.

"Just...take...a...deep...breath..." Tom said, panting from the exertion. He plopped down by Sands, breathing heavily.

"Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tfuckingKNOW! Are you happy? Are you fucking happy?"

_Not really. I'm a figment of your imagination. You're not all that happy right now, so I don't see why I should be._

"Then why the fuck are you talking?"

_Because I never had the opportunity before. You're just freaking out, man. Tearing your mind wide open and giving me the chance to...monologue._

"Go...away...

_How?_

Sands' eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed onto the grass, unconscious.

"Sands?" Tom shook him a little. "Sands! Goddammit wake the fuck up you stupid motherfucker!" Tom said near hysterics. _Shit! What the hell am I supposed to do? I've got 2 psychos on my hands now-both of which are unconscious._

Tom heard the drone of a motorcycle come ever closer and stop. He looked up at a beefy biker and nearly shit his pants. _Oh shit._ He gave the biker what he hoped was a friendly smile, then, while keeping his eyes trained on the biker, shook Sands harder. _Wake up! Oh please wake up!_ he mentally pleaded.

"What're you doin' on the side a th'road, boy?" the biker rasped.

"Um...nothing! Nothing at all. My friend here just was feeling…uh…sick." He smiled bravely again, and stood up, trying to pull Sands' dead weight with him.

The biker didn't waver. "Looks like your friend's a bit more'n sick, boy."

"Yeah...he's pretty tired. Had a long night last night." He gave the biker a knowing look and an exaggerated wink.

"Did 'e puke his guts out 'n pass out in the process or are you tryin' tuh hide somethin'?"

"Uh..." Tom looked around, but the road was for the most part deserted. "Yeah. He had one too many tequilas. Heh..." The chuckled died on his lips.

"Where's the puke?"

"Well...uh...you see...he has this little problem..." Tom looked at the biker, a bit queasy himself. "He-he sorta swallows it."

The biker blinked. "What?"

"Yeah!" Tom was feeling a bit more confident. "He kinda chokes it back down because he's so wasted."

"You should tell him tell 'im tuh get that checked out."

Tom gave the man a grin and a wave, "Thanks! Will do!" Then he hefted Sands up emitting a groan under his weight.

"Need help?"

"Nope! Nope, I'm good!" He gave a cheerful smile and stumbled forward toward the truck.

"You sound awful suspicious-like."

"Nope! Not suspicious at all! Thanks for the concern!" Tom waved him off, shuffling closer to the truck.

"You sound like you just offed your friend and you don't want me poking around."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Does he look dead to you?"

"As a matter a fact, he does."

Tom looked at Sands who was over his shoulder and dropped him hard. "Oh shit!" Sands was deathly pale. Tom winced as the body hit the ground with a thud. He leaned down and put his ear to Sands' chest and breathed a sigh of relief. "Nope! He's breathing!" he grinned broadly.

"Lemme see 'im."

"No need! He's breathing!"

Just then there was a loud moan and both men turned towards the truck.

"You get yourself another victim in there, you sick bastard?" the biker hissed.

Tom's eyes widened. "No, no just another uh friend!"

"Do you always kill your friends?"

"He's not fucking dead! You hear him?"

"I'd say you were gettin' sloppy 's all."

Tom rolled his eyes and, against his better judgment, told the biker his thoughts. "Why'nt you just fuck off?"

The biker's eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly. Before Tom could come up with a witty comeback, the biker had unbuckled his belt: a modified bike chain, useful for whipping the hell out of his enemies. "I don't like murderers."

Tom's eyes widened as he took a step back.

Mort moaned again, satting up in the truck and looking around. "Whassa matter?" He blinked, seeing Tom backing away from something. He realized he was on the floor of Tom's truck and shifted to get out of the truck, groaning from the pain. It seemed that the pain was everywhere.

He stumbled from the truck and had to grab onto Tom so that he wouldn't fall over. His eyes took in the scene around him. First, Sands, who sprawled on the ground, his limbs twisted oddly. Then he saw the biker with his belt held out in front of him threateningly. He nearly whimpered and hopped behind Tom.

"Did this man try tuh kill you, sir?" The biker asked it of Mort, ignoring Tom.

Mort didn't know what to say, so he just nodded his head, watching fearfully as the man came closer.

Tom cursed. "No one tried to fucking kill you! If we wanted you dead, you would've been a long time ago!"

"Step away from him, sir, I'll make sure he don't kill nobody no more," the biker growled. Mort obliged, thinking this an actual chance of escape. He sidestepped- rather side_ limped_- around Tom, to stand beside the biker.

Tom just stared at Mort, puzzled, then he shook his head, his hand going to his hip.

The biker flicked the chain at Tom, catching him in the hand. "Get your hand away from your pants, boy!"

Tom merely winced as the chain bit into his flesh, but didn't move his hand. Instead he pulled out Sands' glock. He aimed it squarely at the man's head. "I recommend you leaving now and not mentioning this to anyone, _comprende_?" He released the safety emphasizing his point.

"I ain't afraid uh your toy. You're gonna have to dispose uh my body somehow. And if you don't, they'll find your blood on my chain and they'll catch you, boy. I'll have put you behind bars anyway."

"I'm serious man, get lost! I don't like doin' this, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do..."

Mort's face grew a little pale. "I think you should be goin now..." he told the biker.

"You won't be hurtin' nobody no more," the biker hissed.

Tom was about to pull the trigger when his legs were swiped out from under him. Sands was sitting up, holding his woozy head in his hand. "Tom, you dumb fuck. Don't kill the people who are going to get you put away. Who are you, Sunshine?" he squinted at the biker.

"Weren't you dead?" he asked, baffled.

"Sure feels that way, but I'm pretty sure I'm not. Am I?" Sands cocked his head. Tom had landed on his ass dazed, still holding the gun. His eyes narrowed at Sands.

"What the fuck was that?"

Mort watched as Sands came to and slowly began to grow nervous. His chances of getting away now were growing slimmer. He turned to the biker and quickly told his story.

"They kidnapped me! And then they tortured me!" He pointed to his shoulder where there were specks of blood on his shirt from the would being opened, and then his thigh-the reason he'd limped. "Now they're no doubt planning on killing me! You can't let them do that!" he wailed.

"They? Wasn't he actin' alone?" the biker frowned.

Mort shook his head fervently. "Nuh-uh. It was him," He pointed to Sands. "Who kidnapped me and shot me twice and brained me who knows how many times!"

"So...was he tryin to save you or somethin'?" He waved at Tom.

"Um..." Mort looked at Tom who was watching him waiting for his response. "Not exactly..."

"Then what the hell was wrong with you," he nodded at Sands who was still trying to orient himself.

"Go fuck a turtle," Sands groaned.

Tom was tired, both physically and mentally. He wanted nothing more than for this dirty, greasy biker to fuck off, but he was just gonna hang around exchanging insults. "Sands, shut the fuck up!" Tom hissed.

"Oh fuck you, you inconsiderate bastard," Sands snarled and whipped out a little gun from the crotch of his pants. Not a figurative one, but a real one, and blew the biker's face off.

"Holy shit Sands!" Tom gasped.

Mort just stared at the biker who'd fallen face first. He'd never seen a dead man before.

_Sure ya have Morty! Remember yer lil friend Tom Greenleaf?_

"No." Mort whispered. "No! I didn't kill him!" He crouched down, not minding the pain that shot through his thigh. He began wringing his hands and rocking, staring dazed at the corpse of the biker. "I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him." He repeated it over and over again like a mantra in his head. He wasn't seeing the biker's dead body, but the decaying one of his good friend, Tom Greenleaf. "I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him."

"Christ! Now look what you've done gone and done!" Tom muttered, standing up.

"I didn't do it," Sands nodded seriously.

"Oh right, the gun pulled the trigger itself. That's original," Tom rolled his eyes.

"Well, you were doing quite grandly. The biker was going to whip you to death, and Mort was going to get away again. You'll forgive me if I couldn't let you do that."

"It wasn't going to happen! I was going to take care of everything. The situation was under control until you decided to pull the fucking trigger."

"Bull shit!"

"Well it doesn't matter now! I'm gonna have to get this all cleaned up now! Jesus!" He looked over at the dead body. "Just get in the truck and shut up!"

"So you can fuck up again? No, Tommy Boy, not this fucking time!" Sands staggered to his feet, trying to get his balance by holding his arms out. He still didn't have a whole lot of feeling in his feet. It was like the beginnings of a major foot awakening with the twanging of pins and needles. He was going to have a hell of a time moving, but it had to be done. To save his skin, or something like it.

Tom just sighed irritably and stalked over to Sands. He half dragged him, half helped him stumble to the truck, where he was able to unceremoniously dump him in. "Let me take care of this, you've done enough as it is."

"No, dammit, get me to your fucking biker!" Sands struggled against Tom's grip.

"No," Tom said firmly. "You stay right here and _I'll_ take care of 'my fucking biker,' or we can all just leave right now and leave the highway patrol one heyday of a crime scene."

"You let Mort get away! If I can't trust you with precious fucking cargo, what the hell am I going to say now?" he snapped.

"How bout you just not worry about it, ok? I'll get you your 'precious fucking cargo' and get on with cleaning up the mess you made, although, from the looks of things, there's going to be a bit of blood left over..."

Sands jammed his crotch gun into Tom's solar plexus. "You know what I'm capable of. Take me with you."

Tom gasped. "No. You can fucking shoot me, but I'm not taking you near him," he rasped out.

"And why the fuck not?"

"Because, I don't need any more of your fucking _help_."

"And just what have you been able to do successfully all by yourself since I've gotten here? Drink a case of beer? Good show, Tom. Well done."

Tom's eyes narrowed, and he hauled off and punched Sands in the nose. "Shut your goddamn fucking mouth!"

Sands blinked. Well...that hurt a bit. He felt something leak down his face, like a cold in overdrive. He exhaled slowly and stared Tom in the eye with a slightly dazed expression before cracking a grin.

"Bet you're having fun beating me up like this. You've always wanted to I bet."

Tom threw up his hands and spun around slamming the door in Sands' face. He proceeded to make speedy work of cleaning up the mess before him. Luckily, he carried all sorts of odds and ends in the bed of his truck; one such thing was a shovel. Yet, he feared he wouldn't have time to dig a grave for the man here, so he grabbed a tarp he had in the truck and wrapped the stocky biker up. After doing so, he stood for a minute studying the bright blue corpse, contemplating as to how he would get him into his truck. The man must've weighed at least 250 pounds, minimum.

"Hurry the fuck up, Tom, I haven't got all day," Sands' hoarse voice floated from the cab, sounding as pissed off as can be.

Tom just rolled his eyes, ignoring Sands. He went over to stand by Mort, whose cries had ceased once Tom had wrapped up the body, but he was still crouched and staring off into space. "Hey! Mort!" Tom waved his hand in front of Mort's face. He did little but look up at him, confused. "I need you to help me carry this…um…package." Tom didn't want to startle him any further. He doubted Mort had seen what he'd done. Mort did nothing but stand, waiting for further instruction.

"That a boy." Tom murmured. He pulled down his tailgate and went back to the body and Mort. "I need you to pick up that end of it." Mort did as he was directed, and, with much difficulty, they made it to the bed of his truck. They were lifting the body up when suddenly, Mort let out a cry.

"Nooooo! No! No! No! nonononono! Get it away!" He dropped his side of the body, causing Tom to strain at the added weight. Mort turned his back to the truck and began to pace.

_Come on, Morty, let me do it! You know you're a coward and can't do it. Thas what I'm here fore. To do what you caint do. It's lyin there in the truck, the shovel. Very similar to the one that-_

"NO!" Mort said firmly blocking off the voice.

"Jesus! You two make the perfect couple!"

Sands was rubbing the bridge of his nose, watching the two stumble about like chickens with their heads cut off. Tom was too fucking easy to bait. And while Sands normally would have tore…flopped…out of the cab to exact revenge, he figured it'd be better if Tom learned this lesson by himself. Besides, Sands' shirt was getting bloody.

"Mort, snap out of it!" Tom said sternly. "I need your fucking help!"

Mort turned at the harshness in the usually gentle man's voice. He ducked his head, but picked up his side of the "package," and without looking into the bed of the truck, helped Tom heft it in. Then, he quickly scurried away.

"Hey! Where are you going?" Tom, said his gentleness returning.

Mort just mumbled, not going past the edge of the field of grass. Tom sighed. What was it with these two? He pushed out thoughts of his two mentally disturbed mates and turned his attention to the bike.

"Hey! Sands! Any ideas as to what to do with the bike?"

A hand drifted out of the window, the middle finger raised in silent salute.

"You don't want my help, I'm not giving it," he muttered.

"Fine then! You're the one who fucking shot him!" He turned to where Mort stood staring. "Come on Mort. Let's get the hell outta here."

Sands said nothing; he barely scooted over when Mort was shoved into the seat beside him. Tom wasn't the compassionate fuck he used to be.

_Probably hasn't gotten fucked in a quite awhile, either._

Sands ignored the voice for now. He was too tired to care anymore.

Tom slid into the drivers' seat and sighed. "So what? We just leave the bike in the middle of the fucking road?" He turned to glare at Sands. He didn't meet Tom's gaze.

"Hey dumbass! What the fuck do we do with the bike?"

"Leave me the fuck alone."

Tom put his hands up, and then started the truck._ Let the dumbfuck get his ass chewed for it!_ "I can't leave you the fuck alone yet, I don't know where the hell we're going!"

"Where do you think we're going?"

"I don't know, smartass! That's why I'm asking! We're not going back to my place, that's for fucking sure!"

"Why not?"

"Because!" Tom said indignantly.

"Why?"

"Goddammit! Do I have to explain every fucking choice I make?"

"No. I forgot. You know everything. You are obviously superior to me because you don't break protocol, and you mince trough life like someone's about to leap out from behind a corner and castrate you. You are ten years my senior, you've lived in this world longer, and you'll die ten years before I will if I shape up and live in a plastic bubble," Sands murmured tonelessly.

"What the fuck was all that?"

Before Sands could answer, the truck made a kind of chugging sound and then died. Tom stared at the dashboard in confusion.

Sands sighed. He didn't want to be here anymore. He wanted to be alone.

_With me?_

Just alone, with nobody at all. He'd smoke a hundred…a thousand cigarettes. A whole bottle of tequila. Anything to get his mind off this God awful day. Why…if he didn't know any better, he'd say he was suffering from depression.

Tom tapped the dashboard where his speedometer and such were. He started the truck only to have it die yet again.

"Shit," he muttered, punching the horn on the steering wheel. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"

"What is it, Tom."

"Gas! No fucking gas!" He smacked the steering wheel again.

"Well, aren't you out of luck."

Tom once again turned to glare at Sands. "Well, considering I'm your ride too, that would make you out of luck as well."

Sands looked at Mort.

"C'mon, you. We're going back to my place. And before you protest, I assure you that I don't swing that way. We're getting a taxi."

Mort said nothing, but shied away from Sands, giving him a sidelong glance.

Tom gave an unbelieving laugh. "Ha! Where are you gonna find a cab out here? And how are you going to contact one?"

Sands sneered at Tom and proceeded to yank Mort out of the truck. He kicked the door closed, pulled out a slim cell phone and dialed a number. The conversation didn't last long, just enough to satisfy Sands. "15 minutes," he nodded at Mort.

"What about me?" Tom almost pouted. "Was it not possible for you to ask them to bring along a couple cans of gas as well?"

"Who said anything about you coming?" Sands asked lazily. "I'm taking him to my cabin. You're not needed at my cabin."

"Fuck you, Sands! You're gonna leave me with a fucking body in my truck with no fucking gas? You're a low son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Guess what, Tom. So are you. You just haven't realized it yet."

**Honor Roll: Merrie: **I'm glad you had fun with House. Then again, who wouldn't have fun with him? He's twisted and snarky and has all the best toys…you lucky person, you! **NeonDaisies: **Well, your Morty tried to escape again. Are you proud of him? Because he's being annoying. Tell him to cooperate, eh? Please? **Sandswich: **You know TJ's? Golly, you've gotta fill us in where it is! **Depplove: **ALL of HANSA? Wow...well, if Merrie will share, who knows? **Cornfreak: **Plagued us with your jabber? I dunno, I thought it was rather amusing. Feel free to review anytime. ;D We'll try and keep up with the Mort action. **obscured-enigma**: Well, we're a bit late, but we hope it was at least kinda worth the wait. Sandsy and Mort goodness abounds.


	8. A Good Night's Sleep

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer**: I own Tokey (I'm entitled!) but we don't own Dangerbabe. Funny ol' world, innit?

**Author's Notes: **Sands isn't enjoying the view, but we sure are! This is for Dangerbabe who said that she would enjoy it if we butchered her image too, thereby dragging Tokey along to help, kicking and screaming all the way, of course. ;-) Hope we didn't do too badly. Honor roll at the end.

**A Good Night's Sleep**

Nicole was CIA. In fact, she had been for quite some time now. As a senior officer, she volunteered to train innocent, young rookies who-more often than not-didn't have a fricken clue what a CIA agent was required to do. But she didn't mind; it was fun to torture the little hellions. It was an earlier, less than thrilled rookie who'd given her the nickname "Dangerbabe," and it had somehow haunted her ever since. She had to admit though, that it was very appropriate.

Especially on an assignment like this. She was hunting a crazy fledgling agent who had caught her attention multiple times. She liked his personality, but he was more than a little psycho. S. J. Sands was a regular lunatic. After three days without word of sight of him, the Company was sending for the agent. Normally, Nicole wasn't up for playing messenger girl, but it didn't stop a mote of curiosity from creeping into her brain. That was probably why she was trying to pack for a trip to Maine.

"I hope these are pants," she sighed. Her room was impeccable for easy access, but things still had the tendency to get lost. She heard soft shuffling from the other room. Agent Tokey-the silly girl-was her newest sidekick. She was the reason things seemed to get lost.

"DB, where's the sunscreen?"

"Sunscreen? Tokey, it's almost winter!"

"And probably covered in snow already. Have you ever seen how the sun reflects off snow in New England? Or, uh…" she paused, trying to think how best to proceed. "Maybe you haven't."

Nicole snorted, her way of expressing annoyance for a tired topic. She couldn't exactly roll her eyes anymore. It was something she didn't talk about often, not seeing the need to, so to speak. One of her reasons for training young agents was her need of a pair of eyes in the field. It allowed her the freedom of escape from HQ when things got dull. Tokey, while absent minded, was taking to the job easy enough. DB saw a genuine badge in her future. Har, har.

Tokey wasn't the girl's real name. Tokey was the name she'd picked out for herself when Kaleigh simply wasn't good enough. Something about Fear and Loathing and a late night involving cold pills and medicinal marijuana jokes. She'd hailed from New England and was clearly not the orthodox agent. But she worked in a pinch. With Maine as her first true field assignment, Nicole had no doubt she'd do fine.

She heard the snick of a lighter and cigarette smoke drifted into her room. "Smoking again?"

"Hm." She just made the noise in response, not denying it.

"That's not an answer," Nicole called.

"So what? Didn't you used to smoke?"

"I try to stay clean," she smirked.

"Trying's not always good enough."

"And what's that supposed to mean? When did you start with Yoda-speak?"

Tokey blew out a long plume of smoke. "Will you quit bickering with me so we can go?"

"Changed my mind. Smoke more. You really need the nicotine," Nicole, a.k.a. Dangerbabe laughed.

"C'mon DB let's _go_!" She put the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. It was conveniently located on the nightstand near DB's bed because she "liked to have it nearby."

"Why are you in such a hurry? Haven't you ever just wanted to stop and smell the roses?

"You're the one who said this guy is dangerous. I myself am just a bit stir crazy."

"No, not dangerous. Just a little insane. Good insane. You can relate."

"How so?" She asked her interest piqued.

"Well…who are we talking about here?"

"I really don't know," she blew out her breath in impatience. "Can we just go now? _Please_?" She started fiddling with the pack of cigarettes in her pocket anxiously.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not quite packed yet. Give me another couple of minutes, all right?"

Tokey just put her hands up and left the room, lighting up again, knowing DB would hear her leave. Nicole wanted to roll her eyes and mentally did so. The kid was great, if not for that damn nicotine addiction.

XXX

Tom sat in the truck while Sands and Mort stood outside waiting for the cab. Sands was more leaning against the truck with a god-awful look on his face though. Tom just shook his head and emitted a long sigh. He didn't understand why the man was so hard headed. Oh well, it really wasn't his problem to worry about.

When he saw the bright yellow of a cab lumbering down the highway in his rearview mirror, he pushed opened his door and climbed out. The cab came to a stop on the side of the road right in front of Tom.

"You the one callin' for a taxi?" The driver stuck his head out the window. Sands gimped around the Ranger and waved.

"Nah, that bastard's not associated with us. Just me and him," he gestured at Mort.

Tom turned to watch as Sands made his way to the cab. "I'm comin' too. You aren't just gonna leave me here in the middle of nowhere without any frickin gas are you?"

"Sure I can, Tommy Boy. Watch me." Sands didn't spare a passing glance for Tom as he eased Mort in first and slid inside himself. Tom grabbed the door, preparing to slide in as well, but Sands yanked it shut behind him.

"Don't you do it, Sands! Don't you fucking do it!" He yelled, watching as Sands gave the driver instructions, and they began to pull away. "Dammit Sands!" He ran, keeping up with the window by Sands and gave it a few smacks before they had sped up too fast for him.

Tom sighed and returned to his truck. "Goddamn you, Sands!" he shouted and kicked one of his tires. "Shit!" He cursed as he hopped around on one foot then leaned up against his truck with a sigh. He closed his eyes wearily, and when he opened them, they lit up.

The bike. He'd forgotten all about the bike. A grin spread across his face. He'd ride the bike to the nearest gas station and get gas.

He frowned. He hadn't ridden a bike in years. He blew off the little worry that nagged in the corner of his mind. It couldn't be that hard... He climbed up onto the bike and stared blankly at the handlebars. _Now, how do I start it again...?_

He reached out and played with the key and several knobs and such until he revved the engine so hard, he jumped. He swallowed hard, and kicked the kickstand up, straddling the bike. He revved it up again and took off. A scream was lost on his lips as he throttled off, swaying from side to side dangerously. He looked like he was seriously drunk, when in fact he was more sober than he'd been in 10 years.

It didn't change the fact that there was soon a set of flashing lights in his rear view mirror.

Tom glanced in his mirror and almost lost control of the bike. "Shit!" he cursed, as he struggled to slow the motorcycle down. He wobbled from side to side as it slowed and finally came to a stop on the side of the road. Tom stood straddling it as the patrol car pulled up behind him.

He sighed and got off the bike and went around the side to put the kickstand up. He fumbled with it for a minute, before he was able to get it out. He stepped back almost triumphantly, as if admiring his work.

"Oh shit..." He mumbled as the kickstand slid back up, and the bike fell on its side, shattering one of the mirrors. Tom winced and looked up at the cop that had emerged from the car. He smiled sheepishly at him.

"Well...if it isn't my old friend," Barney grinned. "Do you have any idea why I'm pulling you over?"

Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, as a matter of fact, I don't. Would you mind explaining it to me?"

"You're riding without a helmet. That's against the law."

This time Tom did roll his eyes. "I am _so_ sorry, Billy! I promise it won't happen again. As a matter of fact, I was just heading to get one. Know any good helmet vendors?"

Barney avoided Tom's questions. "As an officer of the law, I'd expect you to know this."

Tom smiled tightly, "I truly am sorry, Bobby."

"I don't think sorry's going to cut it this time, sir."

Tom looked shocked. "Well, whudda ya mean, Officer Bradley?"

"Put your hands behind your back, sir."

"What? Why?"

"Put your hands behind your back!" Barney snarled.

"Whoa, don't get your panties in a wad!" he said as he slid his hands behind his head. "You're going to arrest me because I was driving without a helmet?" He snorted. "How strong do you think that's gonna hold?"

"I'm arresting you for insubordination, resisting arrest, driving without a motorcycle license and driving without a license," Barney smirked. "That'll hold up fine."

"_What_? I have my license! You haven't even asked for it! And as for resisting arrest, what the fuck is that? As for insubordination..." Tom smirked. "Well..."

"You may have your license, but nobody would issue you the right to drive a motorcycle driving like that. Resisting arrest, for not complying with my requests when I demanded them."

"What the fuck? My hands are behind my head are they not?"

"After I yelled at you. Trust me, when you're already on thin ice, there's no end to the stuff the department will believe about you."

"Wait just a minute there, Benny! Thin ice? I'm on thin ice? What the hell for?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Barney sighed, dragging Tom towards the car.

"Yes as a matter of fact. Mind sharing?" He didn't struggle with the cop, only allowed himself to be led resignedly.

"You let our friend escape," he said as he cuffed Tom.

"_WHAT_?" If Tom thought he couldn't get anymore confused, he was wrong. "What the hell are you talking about? Or rather who?"

"You know," Barney shoved Tom into the backseat, closing the door and lumbered around to the front. After Barney had slid into the drivers' seat, Tom resumed his questions.

"I know? I know what?"

Barney sighed. "You know who I'm talking about. No more questions."

"But-ah-" The words died into a sigh. Barney wasn't going to give him any answers. "You won't be able to hold me, you know. You can't keep people in jail without any prior offenses, for ones such as minor as these."

"We can keep you in there long enough to annoy you, sir. Know that. Now keep quiet."

Tom made a sound of frustration, but said nothing as Barney maneuvered the large car in a U-turn. Tom sat back and stared out the window. He watched as his truck came into view. "_Shit_," he mumbled under his breath. The biker's body was in the bed of _his_ truck right off the highway. He made a point to look straight ahead. Thankfully, Barney drove past it, wanting just to get Tom to the station. He might come back later, but for now, this guy had to get his just desserts.

XXX

Mort stared up at the brown cabin very similar to his own while Sands paid the cabbie. He swallowed a feeling of nostalgia and sighed deeply. He wished Sands would hurry up; he didn't like being outdoors. He turned to face Sands' back, mentally willing him to hurry.

Sands wrapped it up quickly. He didn't like talking to people when he didn't have to. He limped towards Mort, watching him quake like a leaf.

"You okay, John Wayne? I don't scare you, do I?"

Mort met his eyes, the fear was quite palpable, yet it wasn't fear of Sands himself. It was more a fear of the unknown. Despite his trembling, Mort's voice was strong. "No, I'm not afraid of you." It was all he said. All that really needed to be said.

"Good. That'll make things easier." Sands walked past Mort to unlock the door to his cozy Maine shack. Mort followed a bit slower, cautiously entering Sands' domain. He stood in the entryway a moment, looking around.

It wasn't bachelor-messy, but it wasn't OCD driven either. Sands refused to add that to his steadily growing list of disorders. The skylights allowed for a good amount of light, despite the dark wood paneling. There was a couch beneath the big bay window and an electric fireplace. The kitchen connected to the dinning room which connected to the living room. There was an upstairs, but it wasn't easily visible. What could be seen were the socks tossed carelessly on top of a red duffel bag, the rumpled blanket tossed aside on the couch, and the Playboys lying conspicuously on the table. It wasn't lived in. Sands obviously didn't intend to stick around long.

Mort gave a little shrug, and limped over to the couch. He sat for a moment, his glances kept flickering around and back to the magazines on the table. He resisted the temptation to grab one and look through it. He looked up to see Sands watching him amusedly. He frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"Christ, what do I care if you read one? Go take one to the bathroom with you if you have to. They're magazines."

Mort's face turned beet red, and he looked down at his feet. The 4 extra-strength Pain-Aids had long since worn and his head was throbbing from the beaning Sands had given him at the airport, but he wasn't about to ask for anything from his captor. Or maybe he was...

He stood shakily to his feet, and made his way towards where Sands stood. "I want answers, and I want them _now_!"

"Uh huh, good one, Sherlock. I'm the one that asks questions."

Mort moved even closer, his hand snaking into his pocket. He was almost exactly the same height as the man before him, give or take an inch. He moved where their noses were almost touching. "You're gonna be _answerin'_ questions tonight mister." Shooter said. "Otherwise I'm a need to use this here pen-" He held the pen in between their faces. "-and shove it up your-"

"You really need to learn some new lingo, Shooter." Sands casually plucked the pen out of Shooter's hand. He'd heard the southern accent.

Mort's eyes narrowed further to the point where one would think he couldn't see, but he could see just fine. "Thas not a good idea mister." He smiled evilly, then reached back into his pocket for the treasure he'd captured whilst loading the dead body into Tom's truck. He dug the tip of the Phillips screwdriver under Sands' chin causing his opponent to raise his head. "Now I want some answers," he drawled calmly.

Sands wasn't one to be easily swayed by thoughts of fear and his mortality very often. The times he could count were brought on by severe cases of insanity. This wasn't insanity. This was a calm, rational instance where someone had actually gotten the better of Sands. Therefore, his thoughts weren't exactly concerned with trivial matters such as life or death. _Damn those are big pockets for such small pants._

"Well. That's interesting, isn't it?"

"It's about to get a lot more interestin'." Mort drawled, pushing the screwdriver harder into Sands' chin. He gave him a false smile. "Now then, would you be so kind as to enlighten my friend here why you're so keen on 'capturin' him?"

Sands blinked slowly, keeping things in check. He was going to have a hell of a bruise in the morning. It was hard to talk, with his jaw wanting to move down and impale itself and all. He settled for a gagging sound to alert Shooter to the fact that he couldn't talk.

Shooter gave one more hard jab, breaking the skin, before lowering the screwdriver to rest against his Adam's apple. "Well? Let's hear it."

Sands hissed in pain.

_Well golly, I do so hope you've had your tetanus shots updated._

"Me too," he whispered. To Shooter, he gave a defiant smirk. "Hear why I'm stalking Mort?"

"That'd be a good starting point." Shooter said, then he opened his mouth wide, cracking his jaw. "Why _are_ you after me?" Mort asked almost gently, but his hand with the screwdriver stayed firm.

"CIA told me to go after you," Sands shrugged as best he could.

Mort's jaw cracked again, as the screwdriver drove into the tender flesh of Sands' neck. "Not good enough. _Why_ did the CIA tell you to go after him?"

"You accidentally screw that into my neck and you aren't getting any answers. Then you'll just have another luckless CIA agent on your tail and you're back to square one."

Shooter gave Sands a tightlipped grin. "Really now. How's about if I changed tactics?" He emphasized his point by stepping ever so softly on one of Sands feet.

He smiled lazily in response. "Ain't got no feeling there, sugarbutt. Try again."

Try again he most certainly did. Shooter rammed the elbow that was holding the screwdriver into Sands' ribs, and consequently scraping a layer of skin off Sands' neck. "How bout there?" He chuckled maniacally at Sands' hitched breath tinged with a hiss of pain.

_Maintain, maintain, maintain!_

"Good one," he grunted.

"Now then, are ya going to be co-operative? I want some answers, and I want em right this here instant." His demands were so calm, it made them even more eerie.

"You know the CIA trains its agents for torture. You haven't even gotten me excited yet," Sand murmured.

"Oooh! You wants ta be exicited do ya?" He reached down to Sands' groin, and twisted. "That done gonna be enough excitement fer ya?" He stared hard at Sands.

He felt the blood drain from his face. _Damn it. Oh Christ. Fuck._

"That the best you got?" His voice didn't betray the pain he was feeling.

Shooter didn't need to hear his pain voiced, he could see it in his eyes. And he thought he could very faintly smell the tinge of fear mixed with the scent of Sands' sweat. "I don' believe you c'n handle much more, Mister Sands." He dug the screwdriver further into Sands' throat, where, if he were to push harder, it would pierce the skin. "Now then, are ya goin' ter answer mah question or not? What you want with this here boy? Why you chasin' Mort?"

_You were better off with Doctor House._

"Doctor House beat me with his cane and tried to amputate a toe," Sands murmured. He could fidget all he wanted, but it would only drive the screwdriver further into his neck. He didn't need a tracheotomy. He needed to reason with Mort. "You know I can't tell you."

Shooter smirked as Sands talked to himself. When he was certain that Sands was addressing him, he frowned. "An' jest why can't you?"

He shrugged awkwardly. "Well, Shooter, it's one of those damned if you do situations. I'm damned either way, you have a chance of getting away clean if I tell you. If I'm going down, you're going down. Sorry, Mr Shooter."

"Oh no, you're wrong there, Mister Sands." Shooter shot him a toothy grin. "Yer goin' ter tell me one way or the other. If I have to 'amputate' every single toe on your feet, yer goin' ter tell me what I want ta know. This has got to be solved."

"You can hack me into itty-bitty pieces and bury me in my very own garden, Mr. Shooter, and that's not going to change one thing. There will just be a CIA agent fertilizing your corn field," he hissed. He'd read up well on the Rainey case. Of course, Shooter had no idea how close he'd come to slipping up and adding "second" to CIA agent.. If Sands had anything to say about it, he wouldn't either.

"Well then, I guess the secret garden is out. Don't suppose you had one here anyway?" Shooter's smirk returned, and he recalled an earlier conversation, or rather argument Sands' had had with himself. "Perhaps I could feed you to the fish? I'm sure them fishes jest love freshly gouged eyeballs." His smile was cold, as he watched waiting for Sands' reaction.

Sands closed his eyes. The pit of his stomach had dropped, leaving him cold, shivery, and sweaty. The metal of the screwdriver had effectively sucked out every bit of warmth in his body. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?" he asked tonelessly.

Shooter gave a cold chuckle. "I see that I have your attention now." He'd felt Sands shiver. "If you do not answer mah question within the next 30 seconds I will shove this screwdriver through yer eyeballs, repeatedly until there is nothing left but an empty bloody socket, blood running down your face." As he said this, Shooter lifted the screwdriver from Sands' throat, and slid the tip along his jaw line and up his face coming to rest at the corner of his eye.

Sands yanked his head away as his knees gave out. The impact with the hardwood floor shocked just enough reason into his addled brain to realize he had to run. Now. He rolled away from the vengeful Shooter and scrambled towards the door. His fingers had wrapped around the door knob when he felt his heart stop.

Someone had knocked.

Shooter seemed to not notice that someone had knocked on the door. He came towards Sands, yielding the screwdriver as one would a butcher knife. The look he gave Sands was one of pure insanity. As Shooter reached Sands on the floor, his grin grew.

There was another knock, and then a familiar voice called through. "Mr. Sands! Mr. Sands! Open the goddamn door!" There were muttered curses, and then more pounding.

At the sound of Sandy's voice, Shooter's smile froze, and his eyes widened. He blinked once, then twice, then stared down at the screwdriver in his hand. Mort's eyes grew wide in surprise at the way he was standing over Sands and holding the screwdriver as if he was planning on attacking him. He immediately dropped it, and began to back away as the pounding resumed.

Sands dragged himself to his feet, eager to give any and all appearances of normalcy. A small tendril of doubt began to creep into his brain, wondering if maybe he was still a little green to be taking something like this on. All of this vanished when he opened the door, a steely look in his eye.

"Listen, I'm having a bad day, please don't take a picture. If you could be brief, I'd appreciate it," he glowered. Before Sandy could speak up, there was a new female voice that effectively cut Sandy's reply short.

"Agent Sands, have you been screwing the pooch or are you just being lazy?" Nicole asked sarcastically. She turned to her cohort. "That is Sands, right?"

Tokey shrugged, but quickly caught herself. "Yeah, I _think_ so..."

"And just who the hell are _you_?" Sandy turned to glare at the newcomers. If they screwed up her investigation she was going to be seriously pissed off.

"Dangerbabe" turned smartly to face Sandy. "CIA. This is no concern of yours, ma'am, the government takes precedence over city law enforcement."

Sands sighed. "Will you both please just shut up and tell me what the fuck each of you is bitching at me about?"

Sandy ignored him, and took a step closer to the offending woman. "Well if you don't mind we have a dead body on our hands, and I need to get some answers." She stared hotly at "CIA agent."

While everyone was arguing, Mort was slipping into the depths of the house. The only one not involved in a heated argument, or lost in a web of confusion, was Tokey. She kept an eye on the small framed man that was lurking within. She was about to say something to DB when she was forced to answer the cop.

Sands wasn't nearly as amused as he thought he'd be by the cat fight. So he closed the door quietly and wandered back inside, hoping to find Mort before he escaped again. It didn't take long for the annoyed thumping at the door to start up again, but he ignored them for the time being.

"Mort Rainey, where the hell are you?"

Mort had hidden behind a staircase, and froze when he heard Sands approaching. His breathing was raspy, and he quickly shut his mouth and concentrated on breathing through his nose so as to make as little noise as possible.

Sands knew the cabin inside and out. As long as Mort hadn't escaped outside, Sands would find him. Besides, if Mort went outside, the harpies would have caught him.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are…"

Mort held his breath as Sands came ever closer. As Sands went by without spotting him, Mort let out a relieved breath that was a little louder than it should have been. His body went rigid as Sands also froze and turned around, making his way clumsily towards the dark where Mort hid.

Mort took a chance and jumped out of the darkness tackling Sands, with a yell. He began to claw at Sands frantically, his arms, chest, head, and face.

Sands couldn't hide the strangled gasp that was torn from his throat. The momentum that had thrown him to the floor allowed him to summersault and throw Mort off him. He had to lay still for a moment to catch his breath, and when he finally got back up, Mort was poised to flee again.

"Jesus, can't you just cooperate? I've got nothing against you and the guy you killed was an ass, ok? Stop trying to fucking kill me!"

Mort froze at that. "W-what do you mean? The guy I k-killed? I ha-haven't killed anyone!" He looked at Sands, his lips quivering.

"I know what you did, that's why I'm here. I'm quite up to date, thank you. Ted was a bastard. I know this. I'm fine with you killing him. I would have if you hadn't, now that I'm being frank," he frowned. "I'm just here because I'm told to follow orders, savvy? I commend you, but I've got to pretend I don't. Understand?"

Mort frowned, and blinked at him. "B-but they're gone. They've been missing f-for a couple weeks now. I didn't kill anyone!" His brows puckered.

"Just take the credit already," Sands growled. "You killed them. Get over it."

"_I didn't kill them_!" he hissed through his teeth. He once again lunged for Sands, this time pinning Sands to the floor. "I didn't kill them!" He yelled, shaking Sands' shoulders that were pinned under Mort's body.

"Just my luck, I get the-" He winced as his shoulders hit the floor- "guilty sociopath."

"Stoppit! Stop saying it!" He slapped Sands across the face, not hearing what he was saying; he just saw his lips moving, watching them form those words. You killed them. You killed them. You killed them. "Stop saying it! Arrrrgggghhhh!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, shaking Sands' shoulders so hard that his head began to come in contact with the hard floor of the cabin.

Sands' eyes were going out of focus and he realized that he really had to stop it soon or he'd get a concussion. "Sorry, Mort," he whispered before kneeing the other man hard in the groin. Mort's grip tightened on Sands' shoulders as the pain shot through his groin. He moaned, then collapsed exhausted on top of Sands.

"I didn't kill them," he whispered.

"You did, but I forgive you," Sands murmured, rolling Mort off his chest and stumbling to his feet again. The knocking had doubled in pitch and the door was beginning to cave. When he finally yanked it back open, there were two pissed off women and one indifferent one who looked to be some sort of tagalong.

"Did we kiss and make up?" he asked.

"What the fuck just happened? Did you just kill Morton?" Sandy tried to push her way into the cabin, having spotted Mort lying on the floor.

"He's fine, his masculine pride may have been bruised, but what are you going to do? Now, what do you want?" Sands hadn't moved from his spot blocking the doorway.

Sandy's eyes narrowed. "You're going to have to come with me. You need to come in for questioning."

"Uh no, next caller," he turned to Nicole.

"You know why I'm here."

"I know why you're here."

"Why are we beating around the bush then?"

"Because it's my favorite game. Who's the youngster?"

"Sidekick. Agent Tokey."

"Sidekick? You must be the infamous Dangerbabe," he smirked.

"That's what they call me. Are you going to let me and Tokey in or do I have to fight my way in?"

Sands stepped aside and allowed DB and Tokey to enter, much to Sandy's anger.

Tokey eyed Sandy as she led DB inside. The lady had long red hair and hard green eyes, and she had an accent that Tokey couldn't quite place. As Tokey went in, she spotted Mort curled in the fetal position on the floor.

"Should I see if the guy's ok? He doesn't look too good."

As Sands began to close the door in Sandy's face, she stuck her hand out preventing him from doing so. "You're going to need to come in for questioning. Your friend's down at the station and he's not cooperating much more than saying that you were with him." She gave him a yet another hard stare.

"I haven't got any friends," Sands snarled, leaning against the door.

She was braced and ready, and stepped over the threshold. "That's not a good idea, Mr. Sands," she said warningly. "I suggest you come with me. Otherwise we'll be forced to put a warrant out for your arrest."

"Fuck it. I don't care anymore." Sands managed to muscle the door shut to the point where only Sandy's foot was still wedged in the crack.

"Shit!" She managed to yank her foot out before it was shattered. "I'll be back, Mr. Sands!" she shouted at the door. "And I'll have a warrant for your arrest!" She "harrumphed" to her car, got in and slammed the door shut. She left Sands' cabin; her tires spewed gravel all over, some even pinging off windows of the building.

Tokey just watched with somewhat mild amusement, then turned her attention back to Mort. She cautiously approached him, not knowing exactly how dangerous he was. "Hey, you!" She nudged him with her foot. "You ok?" His body twitched, but he didn't look up at her. "Uh, DB? I think there might be something wrong with this dude."

"Can you elaborate?"

"Heh," she smiled sheepishly. "He's not really moving. He's curled in a ball as tightly as possible. Plus, it looks like he's got a couple of bandages..." She looked pointedly at Sands, but at the look he gave her, she quickly averted her eyes.

"Would I be right in guessing that it's not his masculine pride that's bruised, but his manhood?" DB quirked an eyebrow.

"You might be," Sands shrugged.

Tokey looked over Mort skeptically, and rolled him over until she could see his face. "Did he kick you in the..." He looked upward, as she nodded her head. Mort gave a grunt in response. A broad grinned spread across the young 'kick's face. "Yup, his pride is most certainly bruised," she informed her trainer.

DB sighed. There was the regular way, then there was the Agent Sands way. "What'd this poor guy do to deserve a kick in the nuts?"

Sands blinked. "He escaped too many times to count, almost stabbed me open on numerous occasions. Did, in fact, stab me open not too long ago and about five minutes ago, just leaped out of the shadows and tackled me. That good?"

"He sounds like a feisty critter from the way you tell it, But I don't hear him moving around. Why's that?"

Before Sands could speak, the sidekick answered.

"Because he's been shot in the shoulder and the leg. I imagine it's pretty difficult running around on an injured leg, eh?"

Mort looked up at the girl who was not much more than a kid and felt a little hope stirring in his mind.

"That's not the only reason," Sands rolled his eyes.

"Are you insinuating that he's even more injured than my sidekick is claiming?"

"When your life is threatened, aren't you going to fight back? Besides, he's not totally harmless. Just mostly harmless."

Mort didn't know which side to play. He could continue lying there pretending to be helpless, or he could "fight back" as Sands said. He decided he'd wait it out.

"What do you mean by 'mostly harmless'? And why has his life been threatened?" Tokey looked Mort over curiously.

Sands tsked. "You're clearly not that well read, are you? Douglas Adams. Read him. And it wasn't exactly his life that was threatened either," he remarked sourly. Nicole simply stepped back and watched the two younguns' duke it out.

"Then why did you say that? You said, and I quote, 'When your life is threatened aren't you going to fight back?' Why would you say that if his life was not threatened?" She glanced back down at Mort. "From the looks of things he looks as if his life was threatened. More than once I might add. Do you know how far the shoulder is from the chest? How far it is from the brain?"

"I was implying that it was… in fact…me…who was threatened," he smiled dangerously. "Now if you don't stop snooping, I'm going to have to do something kind of rash-"

"And if you're going to go around threatening my sidekicks, I'm going to draw the line and call you out," DB announced.

Tokey stepped closer, having no qualms about antagonizing the somewhat dangerous looking agent. "Are you saying that this man-" She gestured behind her. "-with a wounded shoulder and leg was a threat to your…life?" She smirked as she saw the annoyance flare within him.

Mort saw his chance as their discussion became heated. He didn't know what to do though: fight or flight? Which was safest?

Sands shifted his weight to look around the pushy rookie. Tom still called him one, but Tom was an asshole and Sands wasn't thinking about him now.

"That man right there is no threat whatsoever. He's harmless. You haven't met Mr. Shooter. He's to be watched. The man as a whole… is mostly harmless. Comprende?"

Mort decided to take action.

Tokey frowned. "Mr. Shooter? Who the hell is that? I thought he was…" She turned to gesture once again to Mort, only to see an empty spot on the floor.

Mort shakily got to his feet, and cracked his jaw. Shooter stood as straight as he could and threw his good arm around the kid's neck. "Pleased ta meet ya, missus." He grinned as he spoke into her ear. Tokey's eyes were wide, not with fear, but surprise. Sands really couldn't have cared less. The kid was annoying. It was when Dangerbabe tried to leap into action that Sands grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

"None of that. He might have found his screwdriver and for all we know he could have it at the small of your sidekick's back. Would you condemn her to that?" he murmured. She groaned, knowing Sands was right, but needing to do something. Tokey frowned, and croaked as best as she could with Shooter's grip around her neck.

"Now wait just a minute, who's this Shooter guy you were talking about? And what's this about a screwdriver?"

Shooter looked over his shoulder, and spotted the screwdriver on the floor. His grin widened, and he moved backwards, pulling Tokey along with him. Sands pulled out his crotch gun and aimed it at Shooter's head, knowing he'd never get a clean shot, but thinking that perhaps he might corral Shooter where he wanted him. The farmer had to know by know that Sands had no problems about shooting people. He just hoped that he wouldn't have to hit the girl either.

Shooter froze, seeing Sands aim the gun squarely at his head. He gave him an icy glare, then ducked down behind the kid. Even if Sands shot her, he'd have his screwdriver. He could always use her as a body shield.

When Tokey felt "Mort" duck behind her to avoid the aim of Sands' gun, she tried to look over her shoulder to see what he was doing. She gave up after a couple of tries, and turned back to see the barrel of the gun pointed at her head now. "Oh hell no," she whispered, seeing the clear intent in the other agent's mind. She could still feel "Mort" behind her, and she braced herself. After mentally counting to three, she rammed her elbow back and felt it connect smartly with Shooter.

"Oh shit!" Was the muffled cry that came from Mort as he released the grip Shooter'd had on Tokey. He cupped his nose in his hands, and cowered back into a corner, his shoulder and thigh screaming.

Tokey turned to look at Mort with a satisfied expression, dusting her hands off. Once she saw that he would be no more trouble for a while, she turned back to agent who held her trainer. She bent over, picked up the screwdriver, and strode toward Sands. "Now, then, I think it's time to release my friend there."

"Hm?" Sands' eyes narrowed and he looked at the unconscious grip he had on the older woman's shoulder. She was carefully avoiding movement, keeping the bruising he was causing to a minimum. He let her go and returned the gun to its holster. "See what I mean about mostly harmless?"

"Uh-huh." Tokey rolled her eyes. "Just what was he planning on _doing _with this?" she asked, holding up the screwdriver.

"I'll give you one guess. And it's not 'tighten the screws in my bookshelves.'" Sands turned away from the duo and went into the bathroom to right himself.

"What are you holding, Tokey?" DB asked softly when she heard a door slam.

"A screwdriver," she shrugged, and stuck it in the waistband of her pants. "Might come in handy." She went over to the couch and plopped down picking up one of the magazines on the table. She promptly threw it back down, muttering something about guys being pigs. "So…why is Sands after that guy anyways?" she questioned DB.

While DB was answering, Mort, who was still cowered in a corner, had spotted a door just through the kitchen. He eyed the two women as he shuffled a couple of inches in that direction. Neither seemed to notice, but when the sole of his sneaker came in contact with the linoleum, DB decided that it'd better if someone kept an eye on him. She had a pistol out in no time flat where she'd heard the squeak of rubber.

"Stop right there, Mr. Rainey. Get back in here and I won't shoot you."

Mort froze, grimacing at the thought of yet another bullet wound. He tentatively put his hands up and turned around. He limped over to the couch where Tokey looked at him amusedly. He sat down at the opposite end of it, and glared at her making her chuckle.

Mort turned to DB and gave her a smart, tight lipped smile. "Yes please do share. Why _is_ he after me?"

"If he hasn't told you, who would I be to let slip this sacred secret?" DB shrugged.

"An evil little harpy who has no business being here," Sands muttered. He'd come out of the bathroom, face wet, hair dripping and smelling of bath salts. Nobody had noticed him beforehand in the midst of Mort's attempted escape. Sands sauntered over to Mort and quickly snapped a cuff around his wrist. Before he could protest, Sands dragged him over to the front door and cuffed him to the handle. "Now no more escaping, you hear me?"

"You're a low son of bitch you know that?" Mort growled, tugging on the doorknob uselessly.

"And a Merry fucking Christmas to you, too." Sands flipped Mort off before dragging himself to the couch and flopping into Mort's spot. His head lolled back and his eyes drifted closed. His wrist watch had read 11 PM when he'd checked in the bathroom. Considering he'd been up since 5 that morning and had been going just about nonstop, he could honestly say that he was tired. He didn't even care that he had company watching him doze.

Tokey looked over at the dozing agent skeptically, then just shrugged her shoulders. "What about that agent friend of his? Aren't we supposed to find him too?"

"Agent friend?" DB asked.

"Yeah…I thought we were supposed to find him to. Didn't they say that he's part of it too? The other trainer?"

Before DB could answer, there was a sharp knock on the door which caused Mort to jump. Once his heart returned to its normal pace, he peered through the peephole. A wave of relief swept over him upon recognizing the man on the porch. He opened the door and somewhat welcomed the man.

"Dave! Look! Look what he's doing to me!" he almost moaned to the sheriff. He gestured to his hand that was chained to the door.

Dave frowned at the site of his enemy chained to the doorknob. It would have given him more pleasure if he'd done it himself, but at least it didn't look like the murderer was going anywhere for awhile. He stepped by Mort and entered the living room, seeing three occupants-four if he counted Mort. A man was passed out on the couch and there were two women huddled together.

"I was told this was a Mr. Sands' house and judging by Mr. Rainey in the corner, I'm going to assume it is."

DB raised her head towards Dave's voice, "What's it to you?"

"Mr. Sands and his partner were supposed to come by my office today to pick up something, but they didn't show. I figured I'd drop if off, but I'd rather not have it fall into the wrong hands. I guess I'll just be going." Dave turned around when DB spoke up.

"We work with Mr. Sands, are you sure you can't trust us?"

"Very sure. Just let him know he should drop by the office tomorrow." And with that, Dave Newsome was gone, leaving a confused party left. Sands hadn't woken up.

Tokey looked at DB confusion written all over her face. "What do you think that was all about?"

"Might have something to do with the dead body," Mort muttered.

"The one you killed?" DB asked stiffly.

"No, the one your fucking friend killed," he snarled.

If that was true, the Company was going to have a hell of a time justifying it. DB didn't want to think about such matters right then, after the plane ride and the layover and everything else today. Finding out from Sands would be only slightly better than finding out from Mort. At least if she asked Sands, Nicole would be awake enough to realize what was being talked about.

"Well, seeing as how I don't have a key, I think you're stuck there. Good night, Mort. Tokey, I've got the bed upstairs, you can sleep wherever you want," DB addressed her sidekick.

Tokey made a noise of acknowledgement and sighed tiredly. She didn't know how many beds there were upstairs, or if there was even more than just one. She didn't feel as if she could make it back down to the couch if she went upstairs, so she just curled up on the sofa. The tips of her toes were touching Sands' legs where he sat slouched at the far end.

Noticing everyone was turning in for the night, Mort began to grow irritated. "Hey!" he shouted. "What about me? You're not just gonna leave me here chained to the fucking door are you?"

Tokey lifted her head to look at Mort and shrug her shoulders. "Not my deal buddy," she said sleepily and laid her head back down.

"Hey!" Mort shouted louder this time and began to jangle the handcuffs on the doorknob.

The noise finally got to be so unbearable, that Tokey stretched out her feet and gave Sands a kick, almost knocking him to the floor. "Take care of your friend over there," she murmured drowsily.

Sands snorted and blinked dazedly. His head felt heavier than it should be. The jingle of handcuffs eventually brought him back to the present and a distressed Mort bathed in moonlight. The digital clock in the kitchen said 12:05. He hadn't even been sleeping for an hour. That's why he still felt like shit.

He wobbled over to Mort, his eyes dead in the silvery light. When he saw Mort start to cow under his gaze, he allowed himself to blink. "You make one more fucking peep; I'll blow your head off. Now shut the fuck up and go to bed. Some of us don't get naps when we're taken over by alternate personalities."

"How the hell am I supposed to sleep when I'm chained to the goddamn door? I can't fucking sleep standing up!"

Sands didn't have the patience he normally did. Mort had used up more than his quota. So he punched Mort in the face. The dull thump of the writer's skull connecting with the door was satisfactory, especially when Mort didn't move a minute later. Sands smiled wearily and made his way back to the couch to find Tokey stretched along the entire length. He had a feeling the bed was taken as well. This only left the reclining lawn chair on the screened-in porch.

Minutes later, after gathering up all the free covers he could, Sands curled up inside his nest of blankets on the porch-ignoring the frigid Maine wind-and fell back to sleep.

**Honor Roll: Merrie: **Of course crazy SJ is fun! He's like a barrel of monkeys or something! And as for Aida and Tom…well they'd certainly have a lot to talk about. loosens collar **BraveSymbol: **You made it! And you lime it! Here's Chapter 8, just for you. ;-)


	9. Harrison

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

**Disclaimer**: We still own Tokey and I think we own the newest member of the Sands' house. That'd be nice.

**Author's Notes: **It wouldn't be a good psycho SJ story if he didn't go a little psycho. Thanks for sticking with us this long. Honor roll at the end.

**Harrison**

At exactly 6 o'clock the next morning, there was yet again a pounding on the door. Mort moaned, unsure of whether it was his head that was pounding, or if there was actually someone at the door. His other shoulder was sore from having slept slouched on the floor with his wrist cuffed to the doorknob. At the next set of knocks, he moaned even louder, the throbbing in his head intensified.

Tom stood out on the porch mumbling under his breath. He was harried from having to spend the night in a cell. He'd called his lawyer as soon as he'd gotten his phone call, and he had been bailed out just past 5. He reached up to pound on the door yet again when he heard a muffled sound. He turned and saw Sands curled up on a lawn chair and frowned. Surely he wouldn't have left Mort inside alone.Unless...

"Sands." He went to where Sands lay sleeping. "Sands, wake up!"

"Dammit, can't you people lemme the fuck alone?" Sands grumbled, rolling away from Tom.

Tom knew it was dangerous, but leaned into Sands' ear and shouted. "Wake up, Sands!" Then he dumped the rookie agent out of the chair and onto the wood floor of the porch. He promptly stepped back out of reach and waited for him to get his bearings.

Sands hopped into a crouch, eyes scanning for danger and only finding a disheveled Tom. At first, disappointment crossed his features, then annoyance, then all out anger. He wouldn't shoot Tom-he couldn't-so he grabbed a blanket, flung the screen door open and stormed away, determined to sleep somewhere. The door slammed closed with a resounding thwack. It was enough to drive DB out of bed to stumble down the stairs.

"Just where the hell do you think you're going?" Tom shouted after Sands, following him. "And where's your captive?"

Mort closed his eyes trying to concentrate on the voices. He recognized Tom's as he tried to decipher what they were saying, but he was having difficulty as they moved off the porch and away from the door. He wanted to know what was happening, or rather what had happened. He looked around, seeing the girl still sleeping soundly on the couch.

"Psst! Hey kid!" he called out. "Hey! You! Um…Tookey?"

Tokey let out a snort and rolled over onto the floor. She hit with a thud. "Umph." She looked around, confused, and spotted Mort trying to get her attention. "My name's Tokey." She said, then spotted her trainer at the foot of the stairs. "Why're we up so-" she broke off with a yawn. "-early?"

"The screen door slammed. Someone's outside. I don't think Sands is the type to get the sudden urge to bond with nature, so I'm covering all the bases. Check the window, Tokey, who's out there?" DB murmured.

"It's Tom," Mort said as if they were stupid.

Tokey got up to look out the window and glanced at Mort. "Who's Tom?"

Mort rolled his eyes. "The 'agent friend?'"

"Oh..." Tokey looked out the window, but didn't see anything. Tom and Sands had already disappeared into the thick foliage. "Nothing to report, Capitán."

"Tom? Tom McCarthy? Tokey, he was supposed to be on vacation up here, not helping Sands on this asinine assignment. How did you figure Tom was in on this?" DB frowned.

"Uhm, I thought that he was part of this. I mean, they're friends, and isn't it rather _convenient_ that his cabin is only 30 miles away?" she smiled sweetly. "Oh and the reports state that a one, Tom McCarthy was reported escorting Mr. Sands out of the hospital last Friday."

"Okay, Tokey, you've proven yourself to be a smart ass." Nicole replied sarcastically, "but now we've got bigger things to worry about."

XXX

Sands wasn't trying especially hard to outrun Tom, but he didn't exactly want his company either. The man obviously didn't get the clue that Sands wanted nothing more than to sleep until the fucking sun actually rose. He was power walking to the lake, determined to lie down on the beach and shiver under the comforter until breakfast. And fuck Tom if he thought he could change things.

"Sands! Slow down you stubborn bastard!" Tom huffed, panting as he tried to keep up. "I need to _talk_ to you!"

"Fuck off, Tom, I can't deal with you now," Sands snarled.

"I don't give one shit if you can't deal with me! That's your problem. Now mine on the other hand seems to involve your shooting a guy who's now dead in my truck which points all fingers to me. Not to mention a certain bitch on my ass. I intend for you to get me out of this mess just as beautifully as you got me into it. Understand?" He gasped for breath as he reached Sands and grabbed his arm, turning him around to face him.

Sands' arm came around in a lightning hook and caught Tom in the midsection. Tom dropped to his knees, allowing Sands to crouch beside him, comforter draped over his shoulders like a bulky cape.

"Listen here, Tom, you want to know how much sleep I got last night? None. Have you ever tried to sleep outside in Maine at the end of fall? Have you done it in a plastic and metal lawn chair? I'll tell you; it's un-fucking-comfortable is what it is. Then you come waltzing up my porch steps without a fucking care in the world demanding I lend you my ear for your fucking woes. Well, Tom, if you'd just fucking listened to me way back there after the airport incident, you wouldn't be in whatever shit you're in now because you'd still be with me and I wouldn't have had to kill some poor asshole. Now who's the fuckup, Tom? It sure as hell isn't me. Go back to your fucking cabin. I'm tired, I'm pissed off, and I've got more people that you can shake a stick at on my ass. I do not want your problems added to my stack," Sands hissed.

Tom struggled to his feet, and glared down at Sands. "Don't you dare tell me how 'un-fucking-comfortable' sleeping on a lawn chair is! Whyn't you try spending the night in a fucking jail cell because of some fuckup who left you to clean up their mess?" Tom's hands were fists at his sides, and they were beginning to shake with his rage.

A similar night floated into Sands' consciousness. Marijuana bust. 2 days in jail until his friends managed to scrape the money together. It had been a good day, getting out on bail. And then the court date, when the police realized they had no evidence beyond a joint butt in his yard that didn't have his spit on it. That was even better. Now wasn't the best time to reminisce though.

"I'd play you the world's smallest violin, but I'm afraid my violin lessons ended with I strangled my teacher with a string," Sands shrugged. "Not my fuck ups, not my problem. I offered you help. You told me to fuck off. I don't care if you don't want my help, less work for me. I care if you're being a dick. God, I feel like a boyfriend dumping his pregnant girlfriend on prom night," he snorted. "Listen, Tom, you're not getting me. Fuck off. I don't care about your problems in any way shape or form. I'm not helping you now that you're fucking desperate and realize I'm, smarter, faster, cleverer, prettier and overall better than you. I don't know why you came here, but consider yourself uninvited until you get your shit together."

"Fuck you, Sands. You're a real dick you know that? Hah. Looks like you're no longer crippled at least." With that he turned and headed back through the trees towards Sands' cabin, almost running right into a woman with long dark hair and even darker sunglasses.

"Tom," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Nicole." He smiled coolly, "What brings you out to this neck of the woods? Or do I even have to ask?"

Tokey stood back a ways and silently watched the interaction. DB ignored the question.

"You weren't getting messy, were you?"

"No, that would be the rookie over there," he gestured behind him. "Got antsy and very nearly had a nervous breakdown. Saw a shrink and everything."

"A shrink?" She kept her voice light but was secretly concerned about the sound of that. Word was that he'd just barely passed the psych eval to get into the CIA. If it was coming back to bite people in the ass, that could only be a bad thing.

"Well," he smirked, "that was his title, but he wasn't very well educated in the field, so no worries about that. But-" He cut off when he noticed the young sidekick. "Who's this?"

"The name's Tokey."

Tom raised an eyebrow questioningly, at DB.

"Sidekick," DB grinned lazily. She'd been around Tom long enough to know the man's inner machinations, vision or no.

"Ah," Tom smiled knowingly. "Tokey, hon, would you excuse us for a moment? That fellow Mort's up at the cabin, no? Go keep an eye on him?" He winked at her.

Tokey turned to he trainer for approval. "DB?"

"Just make sure he doesn't escape the cuffs or anything. And don't go near him, right?"

Tokey nodded, "Sure thing."

Once she had disappeared through the trees, Tom sighed wearily. "Nic, I don't know what's going on with him. He's been acting…rather odd lately."

"Odder than normal you mean."

"Well, yes, of course! I mean, Nic, you have no idea. He's been…talking to himself."

"Talking…" she trailed off. "Not in the thoughtful way I take it?"

Tom shook his head. "It's like he's arguing with himself…or a voice he hears…" He murmured thoughtfully. "It's like he doesn't even realize he's talking to himself. It's as if he's in his own head when he's doing it."

"I'm not the psych major, that's Sands' realm. I don't think you're going to pry the information out of him either."

Tom shook his head again. "I know, but it worries me. That Mort guy, he's a strange one too. I wonder if he somehow incited this…this voice, or whatever it is."

"What, like Multiple Personality Disorder is contagious?" she frowned.

"That's what Sands said Mort had. You think so too?"

"I've been reading up on this guy for awhile now. So to speak. I know him almost better than I know Sands."

"Oh." Was all Tom could muster. "Nic…I really think Sands might endanger himself. I mean it. He put his knife to his throat and was seriously going to slice it open." Tom sighed heavily, "I'm really worried about him."

"Well, I don't hear him. You can't be too worried if you let him out of your sight just now."

"Arrrgh! What the hell am I supposed to do when the man threatens to put a bullet in my head if I don't let him have his beauty rest? Jesus! He'd do it too you know? He's done it before-" He cut off realizing what he'd said and quickly averted his eyes.

"He shot at you for waking him up?" Dangerbabe was more than mildly shocked.

"No! No, just forget I said anything." Tom held up his hand and started to walk past her. "I've got a mess to clean up remember?"

She reached out and grabbed a hold of his arm, but it was a gentle grip. "Why didn't you ever report him?"

"For what?" Tom feigned innocence.

"For being more insane than anyone ever gave him credit for."

"Because at times being a psycho can benefit the company."

"Not when he goes around threatening agents. No, that's not right, Tom, and you know it."

Tom just shrugged, "I-" He was cut off by a loud splash from the lake.

DB gripped Tom's shoulder. "We've gotta find Sands. Lead the way."

Tom nodded. "This way," he said, leading the way through the trees. He was all business. When he reached the clearing where the shoreline was, he came to an abrupt halt, causing DB to run into him.

Sands was face down in the water, not moving.

"Why can't I hear him?" DB whispered.

"Uhm...I'm not sure. I have no idea what he's doing." He forced his body to move. He made his way over to Sands and waded into the water, getting his jeans wet halfway up his calves. "Sands?" He gently pushed him. "Sands...?" He pushed a little harder.

Whether Sands was dead or unconscious or stubbornly not moving was up for debate, but he didn't twitch. DB had mixed feelings. After hearing some of the man's quirks, she had no doubt that he was dangerous and should probably be released from duty. But he shouldn't just die. Nobody deserved just to die.

"Tom, can you drag him onto the beach?"

"Yeah." First, he rolled Sands over on his back and jumped back, yelping in surprise as Sands spit a spray of water in his face. "AAAAHHH!" Tom yelled as he flailed his arms and careened backwards into the lake. He landed on his ass, glaring stubbornly at Sands, who was also sitting now. Sands looked confused and out of synch with his surroundings. He frowned at the soggy Tom beside him, then turned and tilted his head at DB, still on shore.

"Do I know you?"

"I think you may have met before," Tom said dryly, still glaring at Sands, despite his obvious confusion. "What the hell are you doing in the lake?"

"Lake...?" Sands looked down at the water flowing over his legs and out to the clear blue surf of Lake Tashmore. His voice had sounded…different…than Sands' normal conversational tones. Not really tangibly different, just enough that an alarm bell went off in the back of DB's mind.

"Lake. Did you pass first grade, buddy?" she asked lightly, trying to hide the nervousness.

"That wasn't me. That was someone else."

Tom frowned. "What do you _mean_ someone else? Are you ok, Sands?"

"Yeah, him! That's the guy. I…think," the man who apparently was not Sands blinked.

"Oh _Christ_! Don't tell me that Multiple Person Syndrome is contagious?" He looked at DB questioningly.

"Wasn't when I took Psych," DB shook her head.

"Not contagious," "Sands" shook his head. "I was always here."

"Well just _who_ are you then?" Tom proceeded to have a normal conversation with this alternate personality Sands was claiming to be.

"He…never gave me a name." He sounded sheepish. "Not-Sands. I'm Not-Sands."

"Hmm…Can't be any more original than that, can ya?" Tom said, standing from the water. He extended his hand to Sands-rather, Not-Sands. "Here let me help you up here, _Not_-Sands."

"Rub it in a little deeper," he rolled his eyes. "Would you prefer I be named Derek or something of that ilk?"

Tom shrugged. "Why not? Got any suggestions Nic?"

"Maybe we could name him Cornelius or Pearl or something equally embarrassing," she laughed weakly.

"Ha, ha no," the man with the identity crisis said sternly as Tom yanked him out of the water.

"Let's just get back to your-Sands'-cabin, and we'll figure all this out," Tom said, once again leading the way through the trees.

Tokey stood on the porch peering through the trees anxiously, wondering what was taking them so long. She ignored Mort's pleas to uncuff him.

"Hey come on! I'll-I'll take you out to dinner! I'll buy you a new watch! I'll-I'll do anything!" he pleaded.

"Just shut up would, ya?" She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, puffing on it nervously. It shouldn't be taking this long for them to talk. She began to pace the small expanse of the wooden porch, listening to the dull footsteps of her boots. When she spotted DB, Tom, and Sands breaking through the forest of trees, she quickly put out the cigarette. "Thank god!" she breathed as she pushed open the screen door to go out to meet them. "What took so long?" she asked, eyeing the two men that were dripping wet.

"Not the time, Tokey," Nicole muttered, relinquishing her hold on Tom. Sands eyed the young agent and the man on the floor.

"Do you people just crawl out of the woodwork or did you all come here to see that guy-"

"Sands," Dangerbabe sighed.

"Him."

"What the hell is he _on_? What's he talking about? I thought he _was_ Sands!"

"He was," Tom answered, moving past her into the cabin, pausing to ruffle Mort's hair. "Heya Mort..." Then, he moved up the stairs, dripping water all the way.

"In short, he's not Sands," DB elaborated. "And we're not sure why."

"Sands was a pansy and disappeared." Not-Sands sounded scornful.

Tokey looked thoughtful. "So you knew Sands? What brought you out then?"

"I don't know Sands. I just rent a cozy little apartment in his occipital lobe. Good view," he smirked. "As for what brought me out…I couldn't say. Sands just sort of disappeared and I got sucked out to fill the void."

"I see. And why are you all wet?" She leaned back against the doorframe, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Something about a llama, a rusty nail and 3 bits of string," Not-Sands tapped his chin.

"Well, you're certainly a smart ass like him. Would you care to explain it on his behalf, DB?"

"I don't have the whole story either, Tokey," Dangerbabe snorted.

"Why not?" The man looked at her. "You were there."

"So you don't have all of Sands' memories. That's very interesting," she murmured.

"Doesn't answer my question, chica."

"Can _anyone_ answer any of these questions?" Tokey sighed agitatedly. "Whatever happened to Sands anyway? You wouldn't be able to recall _that_, would you?"

"I already told you, he disappeared," Not-Sands snapped.

"People don't just 'disappear' within their minds! At least…I don't think so…"

Mort cleared his throat, causing everyone's attention to be averted to him. "If one of you wouldn't mind, would you be so _kind_ as to allow me to use the restroom?"

Mort as usual, was ignored.

"Maybe that's something you should ask Sands when he comes back," the man snarled.

"I'm assuming there's no indication as to when he'll be making an appearance then," Tokey sighed. "Well, your buddy over there goes by Shooter when he's not Mort. What do you go by when you're not Sands?"

The man opened his mouth, but no sound came out for quite awhile. "I-We haven't really settled on anything yet." He looked down, avoiding anyone's gaze.

"Addison Norman Harrison," DB smiled faintly.

"Addison? What stupid fuck would name their kid Addison?"

DB silently substituted "Sheldon" for the sneered "Addison."

"Harrison… isn't bad. Norman if you have to. The first person to call me Harry gets a knife wound." He made a stabbing motion for emphasis.

Tokey's nose wrinkled. "Where'd you pull that name from, DB?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she smiled wryly at her sidekick.

Tokey rolled her eyes smartly. "Well _Harrison_, you kind of reek lake water and all, so why don't you go change, eh?" She pinched her nose shut in an exaggerated display.

Harrison swaggered over to the disgusted Tokey and slung a wet arm over her shoulders. "I don't rightly know, chica. I don't think I want to go change. It's not as if I smell of chlorine or anything."

"That would be twenty times better," she spat. "Instead you smell like dead fish!" She slipped under his arm, and went into the cabin. Mort being defiant, stuck out his good leg, causing her to trip. She turned around glaring at him. "Asswipe," she muttered, smacking him on the back of his head.

Mort hissed between his teeth, "Uncuff me!" He tugged at the cuffs, making them jangle. "Hey _Harry_ the kid's right! You really do stink," he snorted.

Harrison frowned. Mort just blinked when he found a pen knife shivering in the door beside his head.

"Damn, I missed," Harrison yawned.

"Fuck you! You're just playing games! You're too much like Sands not to be him."

Just then Tom stumbled down the stairs, his hair damp, and almost hanging in his eyes. "What'd I miss?" He asked, joining everyone in the entryway.

"I'm not Sands. Sands ran away when he couldn't deal with me anymore. I'm not unbearable am I?"

"Well, obviously if he 'ran away.'" Mort rolled his eyes, wincing at the pain it caused. "How the fuck did you come about anyway? You said you were there before."

"I was. He just never let me play. Still hasn't," he shrugged.

Tom stepped in. "Just what is your definition of _play_?"

"Well...talk. Interact with the outside world. Which, incidentally, is why I don't know nearly enough about you people."

"You know all you need to know. Now then, I'm just having a _blast_ getting to know you, but we really do need to be speaking with Sands if you don't mind too terribly." Tom gave Harrison a wily smile

"Don't you people listen? _He's gone_," Harrison growled.

"_Why_ is he gone? What did you do to scare him off? I know he doesn't scare _that_ easily," Tom frowned deep in thought. "Wait, are you who he was always arguing with?"

"Tomayto, tomahto. I never thought of it as arguing. Then again, I've never really argued with anyone before, either."

"I see," Tom absentmindedly scratched his head. "Well then! I suppose Sands won't mind if you take the blame for the guy he shot?"

"What?" Harrison's eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh nothing, nothing," Tom grinned. "I'm sure they won't mind you acting all innocent-they get it all the time."

"I don't shoot people. Guns are fucking impersonal. When I'm going to kill a person, I'd rather do it up close. With a knife," he added softly

"Oh that's just lovely! I'll make sure to keep the knives away from you. That's something you don't need to be playing with."

"That's all fine and dandy, but do any of you guys have a smoke? My skin feels like it's crawling and I think that's why," he tossed backwards on his way to the door to retrieve his pen knife. He didn't much care for Tom's blustery threats. Tom grunted, but left Harrison hanging. He went over to Mort and looked at the cuffs.

"Are you gonna let me out of this thing?" he asked hopefully.

"I ain't got the key, and I doubt ol' Harrison over there knows anything about it. Do ya son?" He looked over his shoulder at him questioningly.

"Hm?" Harrison jerked the knife out of the door and stared blankly at Mort.

Tom looked at the knife thoughtfully. "Say, could I borrow that a minute?"

"Why? You're going to confiscate it. I'd rather keep it."

"No, no, I'll give it back." He saluted. "Scout's honor."

"If you're sure," Harrison sighed and handed the knife over.

"Thank you." He crouched down near Mort and chuckled as he tried to move away. "I ain't gonna hurt ya. Quite the contrary. Don't want a repeat of the mess at my cabin now, do we?" Mort's face turned beet red at the memory. Tom grinned. "Didn't think so. Now, just hold still here for a minute…there!" Tom had expertly picked the lock on the cuff, and Mort's wrist sprung free. "Don't you go scampering off somewhere, ya hear? The bathroom's in that little alcove there," he pointed. Mort gave Tom a thankful look and then scurried off in the direction of the restroom. Tom stood and dutifully handed back the knife. Harrison slipped it back into his pocket.

"Ok, now who just had a cigarette? Please, just one smoke? One...?" he begged.

"Probably the kid," Tom muttered, making his way towards the bathroom to stand guard.

Tokey sat on the couch, flipping through one of the few magazines that wasn't porn. Harrison stared at his damp shoes, trying to combat his nicotine craving and his lack of social skills at the same time.

"Can I please have a smoke?" he whispered.

"What? What was that?" Tokey looked up from the magazine. "Did you just say _please_?" she sounded shocked.

He scuffed his shoe on the floor and nodded.

"How adorable." Her hand snaked into her pocket retrieving her pack of cigarettes. "A good boy deserves a treat." She smirked as she stuck out a cigarette. She pulled back before he could grab it though. "Ah, ah, ah! You've got to promise to take a shower after."

A look of hurt stole across his face. He certainly seemed to succumb to wilder mood swings than Sands.

"Be nice, Tokey. You of all people know what nicotine does to people," Nicole reprimanded gently.

"Fine!" She handed him the cigarette. "But you still smell," she muttered quietly.

He looked like a kid on Christmas Day. Until he realized the Zippo in his pocket was a tad waterlogged. "Shit."

"Something wrong, Harrison?" DB cocked an eyebrow.

"No light," he sighed.

Tokey chuckled as she continued to flip through her magazine. He wasn't too proud to ask her to light it. He just felt really embarrassed about the whole situation.

"What can I do to get you to stop being an ass?"

"You can kiss mine for starters," she said not even looking up.

"I don't brown nose," he looked away.

"Here." She chucked her lighter at him, hitting him square on the head still without looking up. He caught it and quickly lit up, savoring the first taste. He didn't seem to discriminate between cigarettes the same way Sands did either.

"'nk you," he mumbled, tossing the lighter back at the girl Tokey mumbled something incoherent as she pocketed the lighter. Then she thought better of it, and pulled it back out along with the cigarettes and lit up herself. "Mmm," she hummed contentedly.

"I'm surrounded by smokers." DB sighed and decided to have to some quiet time in the fresh air on the porch while the room fogged with smoke. Tokey followed her out.

"You know you want one," she taunted, blowing smoke in her direction.

"I don't smoke."

"Suuuurrreee. That's what you said yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and-"

"Maybe because it's true?" DB snorted. "I don't give in to peer pressure, Tokey."

"You consider me your peer?"

"Colleague."

"So in truth, it's _colleague_ pressure, no?"

"Now you're just being extra stubborn," Nicole laughed.

"Hm," Tokey shrugged. "Comes in handy from time to time."

"So you can lock horns with other agents?"

"If the need arises."

"What problem do you find with Sands?" If DB could gain some other opinions, maybe she could find out what exactly was bothering her as well.

"Problem? I don't have a problem with the guy, I just met him last night. He just seems a bit...chauvinistic is all."

"Him or Harrison?"

"Him," she answered quickly. "Harrison...he's odd. He speaks like Sands, yet he's softer."

"Lighter. I wonder if the swearing and the mannerisms are trace amounts of Sands. Any opinion, sidekick-mine?"

Tokey sighed deeply, putting out her cigarette. "I think Sands is still in there," she said tapping her temple. "He's trying to come out but that's the best he can do."

"Why do you think he'd suddenly disappear?"

"Because he's an ass"

DB grinned. "You can tell him that. I just hope you can duck fast enough."

Tokey grinned. "Oh I'm pretty spry. So, what are we going to do about this Harrison guy? How are we going to lure Sands back? Not that I want him back, but this guy's starting to freak me out with his sensitivity."

"I don't know. I never studied Psychology, I just took a class in it. I'd guess try to appeal to Sands more than Harrison. Give him a reason to retreat," DB shrugged.

"Well you reprimand me every time I'm an ass to him!"

"Because we still don't know what to do with him. I'd rather be nice than have him show psychopathic tendencies."

"Well if you piss him off enough, I'm sure Sands'll come around," she grinned mischievously.

"I think we should wait on Tom, personally."

"Tom? What's that old fart gonna do?"

"He knows Sands. He'll have a better grip on this than we do. C'mon, Tokey, let's see if the house has burned down."

Tokey said nothing more, but followed her mentor inside. Tom still stood by the door, waiting patiently. Tokey frowned. "He still in there, Tom?" she called out to him.

Tom nodded. "I hear him movin around."

"Maybe he fell in the toilet," Harrison offered.

Tom glowered. "Just shut your trap! I'll take care of the suspects since you can't even take care of yourself. Got to go hide in your fucking head somewhere."

"I'm not hiding," Harrison frowned.

"Not you, dipstick! Sands! The person whose body you're in," Tom rolled his eyes.

"That's not my fault." Harrison seemed to shrink into the couch.

"Well, who the hell should we blame it on then? You're the one sitting there, not him!"

"It's not my fault," he persisted. "I didn't make him leave."

"No, but you're here now, aren't you?" Tom was just a wee bit stressed out and was near the beginnings of a panic attack. "_Why_ are you here?" he asked for the umpteenth time.

"I don't know, don't you get it? I don't know!" Harrison shuddered, clutching his knees. The cigarette in his fingers fell to the floor, still glowing.

"Shit! You're gonna light the fucking cabin on fire!" Tom rushed over, picking up the cigarette and putting it out in a nearby ashtray. Then he turned to glare at Harrison. "What the fuck did you do to Sands?" he asked coming closer.

"I did nothing! I talked to him! He got angry and began pacing and just walked into the lake! I did nothing!"

"Yeah? Well, why was he agitated enough to pace and then walk into the lake?" Tom was now nearly on top of Harrison, his eyes were wild. "Why the fuck didn't you stop him? You _bastard_!" He hissed, leapt on top of Harrison, and began to choke him. DB heard Harrison's strangled cries and managed to pick her way over to Tom. She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him off of the struggling alter ego.

"Don't you dare kill him, Tom," she snapped.

"I'm only gonna kill _him_, not _Sands_ you idiot!" He turned to glare at her the best he could while she maintained her grip on his shirt. It was futile, staring into void of black plastic.

"Don't kill either of them. You kill Harrison, you kill Sands."

Tom sighed in defeat. "But how do we get Sands back?" he asked almost in a whimper.

"You're asking the wrong person," Dangerbabe shook her head.

Tom pouted and sunk down onto the floor, keeping a wary eye on the man who looked like his friend.

"I'm sorry you hate me," Harrison murmured. His throat was raw from the strangling. He still didn't know where Sands was, but Harrison could only take so much more of the shit they kept throwing at him. It was beginning to wear on him.

Tom just snorted. "Well why don't you scurry on back to whatever hole you crawled out of in Sands' mind?"

"I don't know if I can."

"I don't give a shit _what_ you know! As Nike says: Just Do It!"

"I don't suppose you'd like to crawl in here too and show me how," Harrison remarked bitterly.

"You want me to?" Tom stood up and took one step towards him, not daring to go another with Nicole's hand on his shoulder. "If I have to I'll shove you where the sun don't shine, you hear me, you fuckin' pussy?"

Harrison cringed away, trying to curl up in a ball. But Tom's presence was overwhelming; he couldn't escape it. In a desperate move, he reached into his pocket and slashed the pen knife awkwardly at Tom.

"Gimme that!" he lunged to grab the knife.

"No!" Harrison moaned, jabbing at Tom. By sheer luck, the tip managed to tear a shallow cut in his opponent's forearm.

"Goddammit! You fucking idiot!" Tom hissed. He turned to DB. "Did you see what he _did_?"

Harrison skittered away from Tom's voice while DB's eyebrow rose in question. "Guess my reputation doesn't precede me. Tom, I'm kind of at a disadvantage here."

"Oh _right_," Tom said sarcastically. "I forget about your _disadvantage_. He fucking cut me!" Tom looked down at his arm in shock. Despite Sands' vehement threats, he'd never laid a hand on Tom. Well, nothing more than throw a few punches.

"Well, Tom, if you're going to act like an ungrateful git, I'm going to let you duke this one out by yourself. But if you kill Harrison or Sands, the Company will be after you," DB hissed. "Tokey!"

"Hm?" She looked up from another non-pornographic magazine she'd managed to find. Tom stalked back to the bathroom mumbling agitatedly under his breath.

"Tokey, what have I told you about being distracted during a fight?" DB had heard the rustling of the magazine.

"Oh, but I thought you did a wonderful job of refereeing."

"Tokey."

"Sheesh, I'm sorry. I'll be sure to pay better attention next time." She mock saluted rolling her eyes. DB shook her head. This was all getting very out of control without Sands around. If one thing could be said about him, he could make things run like clockwork. She knelt beside what she hoped was Sands' body, ignoring everything else for the time being.

"Harrison?"

Tokey watched DB curiously, but was distracted by the pounding on a door.

"Mort? Mort! What the hell are you doing in there man? You've been in there for nearly half an hour!" Tom pounded some more on the door. "Open this goddamn door before I blow the hinges off!" He pounded a few more times, but got no response. He knew he was still in there, he heard him shuffling around. "That's it!"

Tom did an about face, and strode purposefully over to Harrison, who cowered away from him. Tom ignored this and reached for Harrison's crotch. He quickly unzipped his jeans, and retrieved Sands' infamous crotch gun.

Tokey sat at the other end of the couch, watching the display in shock. Her mouth gaped open as she watched Tom return to the bathroom door.

"If you don't open this door on the count of 3, I'm gonna blow the goddamn thing to pieces!" he hollered. "One! T_wo!_ Three!" He fired three shots in rapid succession and the door swung open hanging by a single hinge.

Mort's eyes were wide, like a deer caught in the headlights. He froze. He'd somehow come across another screwdriver and had been frantically working at the screws in the tiny window. Little did he know it was nailed on the outside.

"Just what the hell are you doing?" Tom asked, looking at Mort bewildered. He sighed instead. "Get out of here." When Mort showed no sign of moving, Tom's face grew red with anger. "Get the fuck outta here!"

Mort scurried out of the bathroom, and returned to the corner where he'd hidden under the staircase. DB sighed as Harrison whimpered. She wasn't going to get any information out of the guy with Tom on a glorious rampage.

"I don't suppose Sands stocks any beer, does he?" DB called loudly, to get Tom's attention.

Something clicked in Tom's mind, and he sighed. "No," he said flatly. "Nothing but tequila." He made a face of disgust. Tom looked around the room, which seemed much too full of people for his liking. "I-I'm gonna go get some beer," he stated, taking a few steps in the direction of the door. "Anyone want anything while I'm out?" He asked politely.

Tokey, who'd been quiet for the whole charade, spoke up then. "Grab me a pack of cigarettes! Oh, and a pack of gum."

"Tokey, I'm going with Tom. You stay here and make sure no one has a nervous breakdown, okay? You've got my cell number. Don't take your eyes off them, alright?" DB said sternly.

"Hm," Tokey nodded.

"Hey, wait just a minute! Why are you coming with me?" Tom frowned.

"Because I don't trust you right now. If you have a problem with that, take it up with someone else," DB frowned.

"Well, it seems _you're_ the one that has a problem, so why should I take it up with someone else?" Tom looked at here warily.

"Do you want your beer, or do you not, Tom? It's as simple as that."

"Fine," Tom mumbled, crossing the room and opening the door. He stepped out into the cool evening air and inhaled deeply. His mouth twitched into a grin, and he pulled out a Marlboro and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. But he didn't light up until he was sitting in the cab of the ancient truck abandoned in Sands' driveway. As Nicole hopped up into the truck, he started it. "Watch out for the stains," he mumbled as he put the truck in reverse and barreled out of the driveway.

**Honor Roll: depplove: **Intense, you say? Oh, that's _always_ a good thing! And no worries about reading fast. **NeonDaisies: **Very big pockets. Some things just tend to carry over, don't they? This second CIA agent's an annoying little bugger. But we say no more on him. And I wouldn't call it so much as an acceptance of his proposal than just getting to see him again… **BraveSymbol: **Good image, isn't it? And of course I care if you have a heart attack! Sara might have to come and rescue you. And get held up from comic relief in later chapters.


	10. Anger Management

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The world is falling down around Sheldon Jeffrey Sands and Morton Rainey. What's the next step towards a grander plan?

**Disclaimer**: What doesn't belong to Robert Rodriguez, Stephen King, or David Koepp, we own. Which is like a boatload of nothing, but still.

**Author's Notes: **Back by popular request, a few old friends. This chap's for depplove.

**Anger Management**

Harrison almost breathed a sigh of relief when Tom left. He didn't like Tom. Tom was crazy. But when he found he was alone with the other one, the girl, things didn't bode much better. The one with the glasses was the only somewhat nice one. He wished he could see her eyes to really thank her, but something deep inside him realized it would probably never happen. So he sighed and nudged up against the couch to wait for the one with the sunglasses.

Tokey looked at Harrison quizzically. "What's _your_ problem?"

"Everything, apparently," he muttered.

"Bah." She turned back to her magazine and proceeded to ignore him.

Harrison was tempted to go outside-just to leave the cabin-but he had a feeling nobody would like that, not even the woman with sunglasses. He wished he could remember her name. Memory wasn't his forte. He wanted another cigarette. And a shower. And someone who gave a damn about him.

Tokey watched Harrison from the corner of her eyes, frowning at the deep concentration he was showing. Then she shrugged, figuring it wouldn't hurt him to expand his mind. She chuckled aloud at the pun, causing Harrison to look at her oddly. Her chuckle came to an abrupt halt when there was a thump directly outside the door.

"What the hell was that?"

Harrison rolled over, neither knowing, nor caring.

"God, stop moping!" Tokey pushed herself up and made her way to the door. She peered through the peephole into the darkness. Her hand was poised over the doorknob getting ready to open it when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. "Gah!" she yelped and spun around to face Mort. "Frickin-A man! Don't fricken sneak up on me like that!"

"I don' think it's a good idea to open the door missus," Shooter drawled, looking at the young girl through half-lidded eyes.

Tokey's eyes narrowed, and she shrugged off Shooter's hand. "Don't play your games with me, Mort."

"Mah name's Shooter. _John_ Shooter." He grinned slowly.

Tokey rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and I'm Mother Teresa. Listen, why don't you go play with Harry over there, he likes to play them games too."

"Lemme _alone_," Harrison moaned.

Shooter turned his grin to Sands-or rather, as the girl referred to him-_Harry_. He strode over to Harrison until he was standing over him. "Harry is it?" His teeth gleamed in minimal lighting in the room. He stuck out his hand. "Pleased ta meet ya. Did you kill Sands?" he asked genuinely interested.

"My name's not _Harry_," he snarled.

"Sure it isn't," Shooter said. "Mah name's not Mort neither. So what _is_ your name? And how did you come about? Mort made me up at a _yard sale_ of all places." He laughed scornfully, caught up in his own thoughts.

"You…you're not Mort?" Harrison glanced upwards.

"No sir, like I done already _tole_ you, mah name's Shooter, John Shooter." He spoke slowly with more patience than anyone Tokey had ever seen.

"So you're…like me." Harrison seemed to mull the thought over carefully. His face suddenly drooped. "But not. You said he made you up. I just sort of…existed already."

Shooter frowned, and rubbed his chin in thought. "That's too bad then."

"Are you nice?" Harrison asked suddenly.

"Sure am," Shooter lied through his teeth.

"Nobody's nice anymore," Harrison sighed.

"Why do you say that?" Shooter plopped down next Harrison and threw his arm around the other man's shoulder. He held a screwdriver in his hand and conspicuously rested the tip on Harrison's collarbone. "You never said what your name was."

But Harrison seemed too caught up in the gaping hole of his own thoughts. There was a chunk of vital emotions missing, like anger and annoyance. There was just infinite melancholy.

"Harrison."

"Hm…I like Harry better."

Tokey's eyes narrowed as she turned back from the peephole. "Just leave him alone! Jeeze you guys are like kids!" She turned back around. "I see nothing out there, I'm gonna see what that noise was from."

"Don't call me Harry," Harrison looked away, paying not attention to Tokey.

"Harry's so much more…friendly," Shooter said, keeping an eye on Tokey opening the door. As she disappeared out onto the porch, Shooter crept up to the door as silently as he could. When he reached it, there was one creaky floorboard that gave him away. Tokey turned around in time to see the door slam shut in her face.

"Hey!" she called out and began pounding on the door. "Let me in, damn you!" She could faintly hear Shooter's chuckles through the thick wooden door.

Shooter turned and fixed Harrison with an icy grin. "Well now, got rid of the youngin."

"Why did you have to do that?" Harrison frowned.

"She was gettin' a mite nosy." Shooter's grin remained frozen in place as he strode purposefully over to Harrison, standing tall. "She mightn have interfered with my plans as well."

Harrison began to creep away from Shooter. There was no way this could be a good thing.

"Now why are you runnin'?" He spoke as he continued to approach the cowering form of what had just hours before been Sands. "It won't be painful, quick an' easy really. I just need to get rid of Sands once and fer all, and since you caint guarantee that he's done gone fer good, I done have to take care of that."

"What did he ever do to you?" Harrison snapped.

"Why he done give me these here wounds fer starters." He gestured to his shoulder and thigh.

Neither of them had noticed that the pounding on the front door had ceased.

"You probably deserved them," the other man hissed.

Shooter shook his head as he approached Harrison. He noticed Harrison was getting awfully close to the other end of the couch, and when he reached it, Harry would be all his. "I didn do nothin to deserve them shots."

"You were running away. I watched you."

"No sir, that was Mort you don saw runnin' away. I don' run away from mah problems."

"No, you just throw cowshit at them like every other redneck farmer." Harrison's eyes narrowed in preparation for the big dance number.

"Do I now?" Shooter asked, his eyes glinting. He made a quick move and the screwdriver was coming down fast on Harrison's head. Harrison rolled away, wincing as cloth tore on the screwdriver. The pen knife wouldn't be much good. He needed something bigger.

Shooter grunted. He was dismayed about missing his target, but that didn't deter him in the least. He moved in again.

Harrison got in a kick to Shooter's knee before dashing towards the kitchen. It wasn't long before he came up with several metal skewers with the intent of thoroughly shish kabobing Shooter.

Shooter grinned despite the sharp pain that shot through his knee. This one was a feisty one, more so than Sands himself. He was rather enjoying this. "Plannin' on havin' a bar-b-que, son?" He asked thrusting the screwdriver once again, only to have it blocked by one of the skewers.

Harrison didn't answer. Shooter had lied to him and attempted to kill him. He'd rather save his air for something like making Shooter pay dearly. He thrust with a skewer, which was parried by the screwdriver.

They continued jabbing with their weapons, and moving about the room as if in a sword fight. It was almost like a game, yet Shooter was intent on killing, whilst Harrison was intent on not being killed. Shooter had a minimal advantage when he was able to fling one of the skewers out of Harrison's grip, but it was still 3 skewers to his single screwdriver. As the battle grew more intense, sweat began to build up on Shooter's brow.

Harrison had the advantage of being in a healthy body, a body whose owner had to keep it in top shape for CIA business. He could go for awhile yet, despite the skewers chafing the sensitive skin between his thumb and index finger. He would wear Shooter down. He had to.

Shooter was breathing heavily; his face was covered in a slick sheen. He saw with disbelief that Harrison had yet to even break a sweat! They continued for a few more minutes, when all of a sudden there was a loud "Thud" from inside the house. Harrison turned to look, giving Shooter a brief advantage that he took. He thrust the screwdriver as hard as he could, fully intending to kill "Sands." Harrison quickly dodged the screwdriver-almost.

He hissed in pain as liquid poured down his forehead from his hairline. It ran into his eye and began to congeal. This served to annoy Harrison further and he leaped at Shooter for another blow.

"All right, you two! Break it up!" Tokey stormed into the room from the bathroom, looking a bit dusty and her clothes a little torn. She grabbed Harrison by the collar and dragged him off of Shooter before he could inflict any more wounds to the other man. She shoved him onto the couch and turned to the lunging Shooter.

She caught him in a body hug, preventing him from getting to Harrison. "Nuh-uh. No!" She shoved him away from her and Harrison and pointed to the corner under the stairs. "Go to your corner!" She said sternly like a teacher disciplining a young student. Shooter glared at her, but he turned to sullenly make his way to the corner.

"Ahem," Tokey cleared her throat, causing Shooter to turn around. She stuck out her hand, giving Shooter a pointed look. He grudgingly placed the bloody screwdriver in her hands, then shuffled to his corner.

She sighed and plopped down onto the couch beside Harrison. "Why don't you hand yours over too?" she asked him nicely.

Harrison glared at Tokey. "I'm not inclined to hand these over because I know that between Tom the dipshit, you and John Wayne over there, someone's going to try and stab me in the back. I'd really rather prevent that before it happens, savvy?"

His eyes widened as his mouth sneered. "Yeah, I'm back, fuckmook."

"Are you talking to _me_?" Tokey asked her eyes narrowing. She really could not care one flyin' flip if Sands was "back" or not, but she did_ not_ like to be called names. She pointed the tip of the screwdriver towards Sands threateningly.

"No, I wasn't talking to you," Sands rolled his eyes. "Haven't you ever had a conversation with someone who lives in your head?"

"Actually-"

"Of course you haven't," Sands shot her a look out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you _always_ this pleasant?"

"I am when I should be dead."

"Why should you be dead?"

"Because I tried to drown myself in the lake," Sands snarled.

Tokey frowned, confused. "Why would you do a stupid ass thing like that?"

"You've never had a friend in your head," he grumbled.

Tokey shrugged, "Hm. Can't say that I have." Growing bored with the conversation, she picked her magazine up off the floor from where it had fallen during the scuffle. She glanced over at Sands. "You know you're bleeding right?" she asked before directing her attention to the article she'd been reading.

He wouldn't have doubted it, but he didn't rightly feel like doing anything about it either. And since it was his cabin, he let it go for the time being.

As Tokey flipped through the magazine, her craving for nicotine began to grow. She sighed, and pushed the magazine aside and reached into her pocket. Her pack of cigarettes was empty. "Dammit!" She threw the empty pack on the floor of the cabin and glared at it. "Where the hell are they?"

"Who?" Sands glanced at Tokey.

Tokey rolled her eyes. "The Easter bunny and the Tooth Fairy."

"I don't suppose I knocked out Shooter's teeth, did I?"

"No, but he might've gotten one or two of yours..." She smirked when she saw him examine his teeth with his tongue.

There was nothing but the beginning fuzz of teeth left too long uncleaned. That in and of itself was pretty disgusting and finally forced Sands to stumble into the bathroom.

"Might want to be careful in there. I had to unbolt the window from outside to save your sorry ass," Tokey called out to him.

"Shut up," Sands muttered, not in the mood for games or banter.

Tokey shrugged, "Suit yourself." With a yawn, she leaned back and immersed herself in the gossip column of the tabloid. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the front door banged open.

Tom stormed in obviously not in a good mood. "I am _never_ going on a beer run with _her_ again!" he spat out as he dropped onto the couch.

"I told already you. It would look suspicious if you were driving around with 10 cases of beer in the truck," Nicole answered sourly.

"Well, screw you! I don't care _what_ you think is suspicious!" he pouted. "If that damn tailpipe would quit backfiring on that piece of shit Sands had up here-"

Sands had finished his business in the bathroom and had exited as Tom and Dangerbabe entered. "Did someone call?"

Tom turned and blinked. "Sands?"

"Tom?" Sands mimicked Tom's wide-eyed stare and stupefied voice exactly.

Tom breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, thank GOD! Where the hell did you get that piece of shit junker out there? She wouldn't let me get more than one case of beer!"

"Oh, what a travesty," Sands rolled his eyes. "You ever think just once that you might have an alcohol problem?"

Tom glared at him. "I'm _not_ an alcoholic," he hissed through his teeth.

"I don't know, Tommy Boy. I'm simply asking as a concerned pal. The non-alcoholic wouldn't get defensive in such situations. But, I do realize that you piss sitting down so you could be prone to more intense mood changes-"

"Shut the hell up!" Tom stood up and moved to where he was looking down at Sands. "At least I don't crawl into my head and hide like a little chickenshit!"

"I wasn't fucking hiding," Sands snapped, approaching Tom. His demeanor more than made up for his stature. "I was trying to eliminate a problem the humane way before it got out of control. Namely, my control."

"The _humane_ way? Oh, I see. Disappearing and having an alter ego emerge, scaring the hell out of me-_us-_is the humane way of solving your problems?"

"You wonder what I was doing in the lake, Tommy Boy?" Sands' voice grew soft.

"What the hell_ were _you doing?" Tom asked, his voice losing none of its venom.

"If you can't guess, fuckmook, I'm not enlightening you. Let's suffice it to say that I wasn't swimming and I would rather not have come back if I could help it. What the hell was in my head, anyway?"

Tom let out a semi relieved sigh, and a tiny chuckle. "Harrison."

"What?" Sands asked blankly.

"Harrison. He requested to be called Harrison-not Harry, Harrison."

"You gave it a name?"

"_I_ didn't, _she_ did." he turned his glare to DB, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly.

"I didn't give him a name, someone else wanted to name him. I just rose to the occasion." Nicole didn't pretend to look up, no longer needing the trivial actions.

"Why the fuck did you people give it a name?" Sands' mouth twitched in anger.

"Why the fuck did you leave?" Tom retorted.

"Because I can't tolerate people who don't know they can't function anymore. They proceed to annoy the hell out of people who were generally better off than they are and become burdens. Damned if I'm going to botch a fucking mission because of a freak out."

Tom frowned, "Is that what this is about? The mission? The _fucking_ mission?" He scowled. "If you're gonna freak out over the mission, just give it up! Nic can take Mort back to HQ; we're going back to Dr. House." He grabbed for Sands' wrist.

Sands withdrew his hand before Tom could grab it. "It is NOT about the mission! It's about any mission! I don't want to be so fucking blinded that I can't tell my ass from my elbow! If I'm in a foreign country, alone, doing some impossible shit, I want to make sure I can get in and out without worrying if I'll suddenly be overrun by... by fucking 'Harrison!' That I don't get found out and captured! If I'm going to get killed either way, I guess it won't matter will it? It matters to me, Tommy Boy. That's why I'm not going to your fucking Doctor anymore."

"Well maybe he can make Harrison disappear," Tom said quietly. "That is what you want, isn't it?"

"It shouldn't be there in the first place." Sands refused to call his anomaly by a name. That gave it power to take over again; something it shouldn't have had to begin with.

"So you're gonna be pissed off about it when you won't allow anything to be done about it?" Tokey piped up from her spot on the couch.

"If that's all I can do, then yes." Sands rounded on the young agent, hate in his eyes.

She shrugged, not fearful in the least as he'd intended. "Your alter ego, your choice. Although if I were you, I wouldn't claim him. He's a little pussy, that Harry."

"I'm not a pussy!" Sands had the penknife out and at the ready.

"Put it away, Sheldon. Don't make me take it away," DB growled, having heard the knife.

"No, I never said you were, but Harry certainly is." Tokey still hadn't looked up from the magazine.

"Jesus, Sands! She's kid for crying out loud!" Tom shouted. "And _you_-" He moved and pointed his finger in Tokey's face, right under her nose. "-don't feed the animals."

"It's obviously some bastard child of my thoughts, so you're calling me a pussy." Sands advanced on the couch. "Say it again. I dare you."

He never saw DB come up behind him to flip him neatly on the floor. She held him firmly so he couldn't squirm anywhere. "I bet you enjoy picking on people weaker than you, hm?"

"Get the fuck off me," he growled.

"Not until you calm down."

"You're on my foot." Tokey shifted her feet, nudging Sands harder than necessary in the ribs as she tucked her feet under her on the couch.

Tom just sighed, then a thought occurred to him. "Hey-where's Mort?"

"Let me _up_!"

"Not on your life. Tokey? Where's Mort?"

"Hm?" She looked up from her magazine. "Oh, he's in his little corner."

"If you don't let me up, I will take my knife and-"

"Shut it," Nicole snapped. "Are you sure, Tokey? I can't hear him."

"Yup. He ran off over there after they got into their little sword fight."

"Tom?"

"I'm on it." He scowled once again and stalked to the where Mort was hiding, but he didn't go into the darkness. Instead he called out to him, "Mort! Come on out here." Tom stood there for a few minutes. "I'm warning you Mort, if you don't come out here, I'm gonna...uh..." He looked to Sands for help.

Sands wasn't interested in helping, despite his obvious specialty in "If you don't" statements. "If you don't get off me this instant Nicole, you're going to be in deep shit."

"How many times do I have to call you Sheldon before you shut up?" Her eyebrows furrowed. Sands bucked up under DB's grasp and rolled them both over so Sands was on top. When she struggled, he slapped her hard enough for her to see stars. Great irony. He got to his feet and saw Tom looking at him.

"What the fuck do you want, Grandpa?"

Tom raised his hands up and backed away from Sands. "Sands, what's going on? What's the deal man?"

Tokey kneeled over DB, checking to see if she was alright. She glared at Sands. "You alright, DB?" she asked.

Nicole groaned, unable to do much more than that. She imagined she sported a rather ugly red mark on her cheek. Sands couldn't care less. His already dark eyes were nearly black.

"Deal? There is no fucking deal. There is...as there always has been...just me."

"Oh hell." Tom dragged a hand across his face. "Another one? Christ! How many of these things fit inside your head, man? What's your name? Asshole? Or wait, perhaps it's Fuckmook-there's an original name for ya!"

"Sure, Fuckmook's an original. _If you're me_! Fuckmook's my word, shit head," Sands snarled. "You have no right to call me that."

Tom snorted, "What crawled up your ass tonight?" He wasn't frightened by Sands' demeanor just yet.

"Are you telling me that I'm not a ball of fucking sunshine?" The crotch gun was cocked and pointed at Tom's head.

Tom's heart rate began to speed up a bit. "No, you're just that: a ball of fucking sunshine."

"Damn fucking straight." The gun didn't move. "Who the hell are you?"

Tom frowned. "You don't know who I am?" He sighed deeply.

"Sorry, I didn't take the 'Who's Who of The Fuckmook-That-Lives-in-Your-Head' seminar," the new and enraged Sands sneered.

Tom's face contorted. "Huh?" he asked blankly.

"I don't even fucking know you, and I know I'm going to hate your fucking guts."

"I thought you'd already made that clear?"

"Then I'm going to really fucking hate you."

"Why do you hate so much? Didn't your mother ever tell you that hate is bad for the heart?" Tom smiled sweetly.

Sands pulled the trigger. There was barely any blood from the little hole that appeared in Tom's stomach. Sands smirked.

"On the contrary, I just felt pretty damn good right then."

Tom grunted. "Goddammit...Sands..."

Tokey jumped at the sound of the gunshot. "Can we go now?" she whispered to DB.

Sands pulled the trigger again. A similar hole appeared in Tom's right bicep. "Keep pushing, cowboy."

"Sands, stop," Dangerbabe croaked.

"I'm not fucking Sands."

"Then where is he?" she whispered.

Tom had dropped to his knees, and was fighting unconsciousness. Meanwhile, Mort, who'd been snoozing in the corner and had jerked awake at the gunshot, was wide awake. His eyes grew wide at the sight before him. Sands had his back to him, and Tom was on his knees with blood pouring out of different holes in a blood bath of sorts. Mort didn't know what to do, but he had to do something. Sands was aiming the gun at the older woman's head.

His hand delved into his pocket to retrieve the steak knife he'd gotten from the kitchen during the chaos of Tom and DB's arrival. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants and took a deep breath. He stood up slowly and silently. Then, he let out an animalist cry, and lunged. He drove the knife into the hand that held the gun, one shot ringing out before it fell from his grasp. Mort quickly kicked it away, then pulling out the knife-which was a bloody mess-and moved back into the darkness of his corner.

Sands howled in agony, clutching his ensanguined hand to his abdomen. His free hand snaked to the penknife in his pocket and made to drive it towards Mort's head. But Mort was already gone, hidden in the shadows of the staircase. He knew Sands wouldn't take the chance. Mort could see out, but Sands couldn't see in.

Meanwhile, Tokey slid away from DB into the kitchen unnoticed.

Sands wouldn't have advanced with the sun where it was, but he could still throw. The knife thumped as it stuck in something under the staircase, light glinting off the shaking blade.

Mort's eyes nearly bugged out of his head, the knife had struck the wall only centimeters from his face. He let out a shaky breath that was louder than it should have been. His whole body went rigid as he saw Sands shift.

Tokey silently crawled to the end of the counters and peered out to see what had transpired since she'd been in the kitchen.

Sands had no more projectiles on him. He wondered if he could bluff with anything, finding only porn magazines. No guts, no glory, as they said. So he took a step towards the stairs.

Seeing Sands advance towards the stairs, Tokey took a chance. She pushed to her feet, and rushed towards him, brandishing a large frying pan. She brought it down as hard as she could on top of his head, and froze.

The pain as Sands twisted her wrist was enough to cause her knees to cave. "Nice try, girly, but not nearly enough."

He threw her roughly to the floor, landing on top of the nearly recovered DB.

She winced as she landed on top of DB. "Oomph." She gently rolled off of her as best as she could. "What do we do now?" she asked, watching as Tom slipped into unconsciousness amidst his own blood.

"Call 911, Tokey. Inconspicuously. Don't let him notice you," Nicole whispered low enough that Sands didn't catch it.

"How?" she hissed. "He doesn't have a fucking phone!"

"Cell phone! Your cell phone!" DB muttered.

"Heh..." Tokey smiled sheepishly.

Mort saw the two women whispering, and knew they were conspiring something. He knew they'd never get anything achieved with Sands' watchful eyes. He needed to create a distraction, but what?

He eyes went to the pen knife sticking out from the wall. He stared at it a moment thoughtfully, then pulled it out studying it. He had a good view of Sands from his corner. If he was lucky… He chucked the knife, and watched as its arc was perfect, heading right towards Sands.

Sands shifted, hearing the knife whistle through the air, but he didn't move quite fast enough. The knife buried itself in his thigh. He didn't scream this time, but it did elicit a grunt when he pulled it out. His right hand wouldn't hold the knife anymore, and now his leg barely held him. He was pissed to the point that those things no longer mattered. He could see Mort's huddled outline in the shadows: the perfect target. Mort wouldn't escape now.

As soon as Tokey saw a movement in the shadows under the stairs, she whipped out her cell phone and quickly punched the 3 digits. While it rang once, she crawled away to hide behind the couch. It was dead silent in the cabin, and she knew he'd hear her. As soon as the operator answered, she quickly spouted out Sands' address. She peeked over the arm of the couch, and added quickly. "Hurry up! He's armed and dangerous and he's going to kill us all!" Then she flipped the phone shut and quickly turned to run for the door.

Sands had heard, and wasn't impressed. He rolled off Mort and trained his sights on the flying sidekick. "Uh uh..." he murmured. A scant second later, the penknife was planted between her ribs and wobbling like crazy.

Tokey had reached the door, her hand on the doorknob, when a sharp pain shot through her torso. She winced as she gasped for breath. She tentatively reached behind her and tried to gently remove the knife, but that only made it worse. She took a deep breath, and squeezed her eyes shut as she yanked the knife out with a moan.

As soon as Sands had whipped around, Mort leapt onto his back, and hung on as tight as he could.

Sands' madness seemed to have given him an inhuman strength. It was of no consequence to simply throw Mort off without a second thought. The cops could come. Sands would take them out like he'd taken almost everyone else out.

Mort landed on the ground beside Tom. In his _blood_. He scrambled up, only to slip in some more in the blood. He grimaced and scurried past Sands towards DB. "Do something!" he yelled.

"What would you have me do?" DB hissed.

"Something! _Anything! You're_ the special agent!"

DB winced, hearing the creak of floorboards as Sands turned towards the remaining two. She could almost see the twisted smile creep across his face. They were going to die unless she got up the nerve to shoot him. Well, she wasn't the best blind markswomen in the CIA for no reason. She didn't know if he had a weapon cocked and aimed, but now, anything seemed better than waiting for the end. She slowly took out her pistol and trained it on where she'd heard the floorboard. Her head still swam, but she heard a distinct chuckle.

"Think you can nail me? I bet you can't hit the broadside of a barn. I think that gun might be a bit too big for you."

"Try me," she growled. His voice was enough to get a vague image and it allowed her to aim with confidence. "Go to hell where you belong." She pulled the trigger.

Mort ducked behind DB as she fired her weapon. After a moment of silence, he peered around her to see what had happened. He frowned as he met Sands' eyes, something had happened, but what?

Sands blinked, not feeling quite right. It was as though a heavy blanket had been lifted off his head and shoulders, leaving him to wobble on his own feet. He had no feeling in his left leg and the numbness was spreading. He never had a chance to look at the damage before his knee buckled and he fell to the floor, startled. If he wasn't mistaken...there seemed to be a hole in his leg...and Nicole had a very nasty looking gun pointed at his forehead. He could put two and two together.

"Do you still think it's too heavy?" she hissed.

Mort looked at her, shocked. "You shot him," he stated simply. He didn't think anyone would shoot Sands.

"DB? You ok?" Tokey croaked weakly just as the door burst open and half a dozen cops ran in.

Sands could barely make his head work. The endorphins were doing their job, he felt no pain, but the leaden feeling in his stomach effectively stopped all attempts at movement. The cops looked vicious, not your average state trooper.

"Where's the killer?" the first one shouted.

Mort looked at them like they were crazy. "He's right there you idiots!" He yelled, pointing to Sands. "Get him before he turns again!" he shouted.

Another trooper looked at Mort skeptically, while yet another studied DB with the gun still clasped in her hand warily.

"Ma'am I'm gonna have to ask you to put your weapon down." One said firmly, training his gun on DB.

DB breathed a sigh of relief, gladly putting the weapon away. That had gotten way too hairy. And listening to Sands', Tokey's and Tom's combined shallow breathing was making her slightly sick.

Sands couldn't even tell what kind of a shape he was in. His mind had shut off somewhere after the numbness began spreading. But he had locked on one word: killer. He couldn't remember killing, or trying to kill someone recently, aside from the occasional need to shoot Mort to teach him a lesson. There was blood everywhere, a lot more blood than necessary. He could only begin to speculate what he'd supposedly done.

Mort stood there staring at the cops in annoyance. "Are you just going to stand there? Go get him before he goes crazy again! I'm not gonna help stop him when he goes after you!"

One of the cops turned to him. "Shut your trap, sonny!"

One approached the supposed "killer" cautiously, gun drawn. "Sir? Can you tell us what happened?" he asked slowly.

Sands craned his head upwards at the cop. His eyes were unfocused and it took an effort to make out the cop's face. "Well, I'm not really sure. I just sort of walked in at the last minute."

The cop frowned, "I see." He observed nothing evidence-wise that singled Sands out. He did see Tom's form on the floor and the bullet wound in the man's arm. He turned to DB, who had lain her gun down. The cop nodded to another to move in on DB.

"Ma'am I'm gonna have to take you in for questioning," the second cop said. As the EMTs filed in, the cop nodded towards Tom and Sands. "Take 'em out, we're bringing this one in for questioning." He cuffed DB's wrists. Lastly, he turned to Mort. "You alright, sir? Got anything more than cuts and bruises?" Mort shook his head, and the man nodded. "Ok. Come on, missy, up you go," he said, hefting DB to her feet.

_Oh carp_. "No, sir, you've got it wrong. The situation is under control The killer has been subdued," DB said forcefully. "I'm from the Central Intelligence Agency. I helped ensure that everything went back to normal."

The cop snorted, noticing the sunglasses, and the tilt of her head. "Yeah, right. The CIA has a blind agent?" he laughed dryly. "I'm not buying it." He shoved her roughly towards the door.

"But it's true!" Mort shouted. "You've got to believe us! He's psycho!"

Another cop moved in and cuffed Mort. "Son, I think the only psycho in here is you. Now just calm down and we'll get you some help."

"Noooo!" Mort wailed. "He's crazy! Has people in his head! Harrison, and-and this new one who went crazy and tried to kill us!"

The cop put his hand on Mort's shoulder. "It's alright, just take deep breaths, we're going to get you some help."

"Please don't make me call my CO. Because if I do, you know what's going to happen. You're going to get a smeep load of paper work, we're going to be stuck in a stupid, bureaucratic dance for months and nobody's going to get anything meaningful done until it's over. Let's save ourselves the trouble, shall we?" Nicole smiled tightly. She wouldn't fight them-she knew they had guns-but she wouldn't let them win that easily either. And from the sound of things, Sands was in no shape to help. Assuming he wanted to, which she doubted.

The cop just laughed harder. "You'll get your phone call alright, but I don't suggest wasting it on a CO. A lawyer might be more beneficial."

The EMTs scurried around getting Sands and Tom loaded up on gurneys and headed to the hospital. Tokey rode along with Tom as opposed to riding in the same ambulance as Sands.

One of the cops followed the ambulances with Mort in tow. The second cop took DB into the city, while the remaining patrol cars headed back to their stations, a job thoroughly done for the day.

XXX

Sands felt severely disjointed the entire ride. Every bump felt as though he'd float out the ceiling. Never once did he notice the shattered left fibula or the slow drip of blood down his hand and legs. Compared to the past few hours of horrible claustrophobia in his head, there was just a blissful absence of everything. He wasn't even aware when the ambulance pulled up to the hospital and the gurney was wheeled through the doors.

Tokey watched as an EMT worked steadily on Tom's wounds. She herself was hurting pretty smartly. It seemed like the ambulance ride was taking forever and they would never arrive at the hospital. She sighed, which sent more pain shooting through her ribs. Tom's wounds were much more serious than hers, thus she would have to wait till they arrived at the hospital for medical attention for herself. She counted herself lucky that Sands had missed anything vital.

When they arrived at the hospital, Tom was quickly wheeled out and she was very nearly forgotten. "Hey!" She cried out to anyone in particular as she hurried to follow. She looked behind her for any sign of her mentor, but saw none. What she did see was Mort being led in by one of the cops. She rushed over to him wincing at the pain that shot through her lungs.

"Where's DB?" she asked, looking behind them frantically.

Mort frowned. "They took her," he said simply.

"WHAT?" Tokey hissed in pain.

"I think you should get that checked out..." the cop said dubiously.

Tokey glared at him. "Ya think?" She rolled her eyes and jerked Mort away from him. "He's coming with me." She said, heading to the ER desk and checking herself and Mort in.

They waited impatiently in the lobby until their names were called. The cop followed much to their chagrin, but Tokey was in no position to tell him off. She glared at the cop. "Why don't you go see how the real psycho is doing?" she said pointedly. Finally the cop consented, and went off in search of Sands.

Sands was, by then, lying tamely in the lobby for his turn in the ER. He couldn't have cared less when a cop shimmered into his vision.

"What happened in the cabin?"

Sands didn't have an answer to that. Or one that sounded rational in his mind. He never really planned on shooting anyone with intent to kill. He didn't think. But all the signs pointed to him, and there was no way of fighting it. Nicole was too rational, Mort too weak. Tokey was just for scenery and Sands didn't think Tom was stupid enough to shoot himself.

"I think-"

"Didn't I just get rid of you?" a familiar voice grumbled. Sands somehow found himself looking to the right without consciously telling his neck to move. An agitated Dr. House was limping towards him and he was very annoyed.

"You did. I came back," Sands mumbled.

"I knew you loved me." House turned to the cop. "There won't be any questions until I get a look at him. If you have a problem, talk to someone who gives a damn. Jorri, wheel him for me."

Jorri gave Dr. House a nod, and moved behind Sands' stretcher. "Here we go," she said as she pushed him, following slowly behind House.

The cop started to follow, despite what House had said, when Jorri turned to him. "We've got it from here officer. Thank you for your help." She smiled at him and gave a curt nod.

The officer scowled at her, but didn't follow. He stood in the lobby, watching as they went. "The other one's the man you should be looking at doctor," the officer hollered across the lobby, snidely.

House turned around looking vaguely pissed and yet somewhat amused. "Oh, so there are more weirdoes running around for me to look at? It's my lucky day. Now why don't you go find yourself a doughnut shop to hole up in while I do my job?"

Jorri smirked at House's comment, while the cop's eye twitched. The cop turned around and headed back towards the ER where Mort and Tokey were.

"Hey! Easy there, buddy!" Tokey was shouting at a doctor. "Those are my ribs!" She was lying flat on her stomach on a bed while the doc cleaned and stitched the hole beneath her ribs.

Mort stood back, nervously watching and gnawing on his lower lip. He looked up as the cop came into the room, and shied into the far corner putting the bed and nurse between him and the cop.

That was when another familiar person stormed up to Mort, anger in her brown eyes. She looked ready to slap him, but her profession wouldn't allow it.

"What did you do to Mr. McCarthy?" Sara hissed.

Mort slid further into the corner as Sara descended upon him. He moved backwards until he was literally in the corner.

"I-I didn't do anything!" he cried, cowering away from her.

"I recognize you! He was after you because you're a dangerous felon and now he's got two bullet wounds. Explain that to me!"

"I-it wasn't me!" Mort denied it again, finding it hard to speak under the paramedic's hard stare. "I-i-it was...Sands!" he sputtered. "Ask her!" He pointed to Tokey.

"Hey! I'm trying to get put back together here! Leave me out of this!" She hissed in pain and slapped the nurse's hand away from her. "Just quit poking and prodding and bandage the damn thing!"

"You're just saying that, you bastard!" Sara yelled.

"Sara, no harassing the patients," Merrie looked up from her tending of the snarling Tokey. She looked hassled; it hadn't been a good day.

"He very nearly killed Tom!"

"Sara, give it up!" Merrie snapped. The statement was accompanied by a sharp movement that jolted the junior agent. "Focus!"

Tokey yowled and flipped over on the table giving Merrie a swift kick in the gut. Thus inciting the ensuing chaos.

Shooter awoke and lunged at Sara, grabbing her around the neck. "We meet again," he drawled with a tilt to his grin.

The cop jumped looking from Tokey to Shooter, trying to figure out who was the largest danger. Seeing Sara's face beginning to turn purple, he went after Shooter. He whipped out his gun and put it to Shooter's temple. "Freeze! Hold it right there! Don't move!"

Shooter obliged with a broad grin, his fingers gripped tightly around Sara's throat while she struggled for breath.

Merrie wheezed, trying to get her breath back and deal with the situation. She didn't have tranquilizers on her, and she wasn't even sure she'd make it close enough to inject them. Luckily, it was Sara who figured out how to save herself. She kicked the man she only knew as Shooter in the groin.

Shooter let out a grunt and fell to his knees, releasing Sara's neck. "That was mighty low missus," he said through clenched teeth.

The cop looked at Sara in a mixture of shock and awe. "Wow, ma'am that was very...brave…of you."

She ignored the praise. "Mighty low? You're so damn full of yourself, Mr. Shooter, you wouldn't know low if it bit you in the ass! Get him out of my sight," she growled.

"Yes ma'am." The cop nodded and grabbed Shooter. Cuffing the man, he lead him out of the room to wait for Tokey.

Tokey turned a glare on Merrie. "Did you fix it?" she asked.

"Well, maybe if you'd stop squirming, I could finish," Merrie's jaw tightened.

"Well, if you'd stop jabbing me with that-that thing!" She said referring to the instrument in Merrie's hand.

Merrie poked her again, out of spite. Sara rolled his eyes.

"And you mock me," she snorted. "I'm going back to make sure Tom is alright. Try not to make her want to sue, please."

Merrie tried to look innocent as Sara left. She glanced at Tokey. "Truce?"

Tokey looked at her, her eyes narrowing. "Don't poke me again. You remember payback's a bitch, right?" She crossed her arms over her chest, watching Sara go. She sighed and looked up at Merrie. "Do what you gotta do, and hurry." With that, she rolled back over on her stomach.

The procedure was finished within the minute, now that Merrie wasn't distracted. She finished in time to see Jorri coming down the hallway in haste.

"House wants to see Tokey. Is that her?" Jorri gestured.

Merrie nodded. "Let's not keep him waiting then."

**Honor Roll: Merrie: **Why do you miss you? You're right here! And House too, for that matter. As for Harrison…he wasn't exactly built for killing people. This other dude though, he might be. -nod- **Depplove:** Stop torturing Mort? You picked the wrong story to read. But don't stop yet, not until HANSA's out of the picture. **Enesvy: **DB! You made it! And um…sorry about the misunderstanding. It needed to be done? And…uh…you make a lovely plot advancement? –big cheesy grin- **Cornfreak: **SJ and Mort had better stop being contagious or there's going to be some big problems ahead. However, do enjoy the punch and corn and this next chapter.


	11. Stuck Inside a Hospital

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The world is falling down around Sheldon Jeffrey Sands and Morton Rainey. What's the next step towards a grander plan?

**Disclaimer**: For the record, House doesn't belong to us either

**Author's Notes: **Enjoy the backlash from Chapter 10.

**Stuck Inside a Hospital with the Antibacterial Blues Again**

House stared hard at Sands, trying to figure out what could have gone so wrong so soon. He'd sent Jorri off to find out information about some of the other people in residence at the cabin and he hoped for answers soon.

"What the kind of name is 'Tokey,' anyway?" he muttered. Sands didn't answer; he barely nodded. And if somebody didn't come soon, House thought he just might have to resort to drastic measures.

Jorri returned to House shortly, Merrie, Tokey, Shooter, and cop in tow. She shrugged at House's curious glance at the caravan she'd brought. "She insisted on bringing him," she gestured to Mort, "and the cop wouldn't leave his side."

"Ah'm fine now," Shooter drawled glaring at the cop. "That temp'r'mental lil lady's gone now."

"I don't think so..." the cop said tightening his grip on Shooter's arm.

Shooter hissed, "Watch where yer squeezin!" Then he took notice of Sands sitting on a gurney and snickered. "They finally got you down, eh?"

Sands cocked his head. It sounded like Shooter and that was bad, but he couldn't care. "Me too what?"

"Isn't he witty? I got him to agree to tell me the secret to life, the universe, and everything," House mocked.

Shooter ignored House's comment. He looked at Sands, his face contorted into a look of confusion. "Wha's wrong, Sandsy boy? Cat got yer tongue?" Shooter chuckled.

"He's never been one for wit, although he does give it a good go," Tokey said, addressing House.

"That's not the way I've heard him tell it. When he wasn't in shock, of course. Shock does tend to make you a bit tight-lipped," House nodded seriously.

"Shock," Sands repeated dully.

"Mild shock, but shock just the same. Now, you," House gestured at Tokey, "what happened? Short version."

"How come he's in shock?" Shooter asked curiously.

Tokey talked over him. "He went bonkers. Tried to drown himself in the lake which spurred Harry's arrival, then Sands came back. I'm not for sure what caused this…um…most recent personality to come forth." She shrugged as she watched with mild amusement as Sands looked dumbfounded.

"Ha! Personalities. I was right." House looked smug. Sands vaguely knew that wasn't right. If he was insane, the Company wouldn't have kept him. The other "personality" wasn't real if he didn't give it a name. He hadn't. And the recent outburst...that was a fluke. He liked guns and knives and weapons. If he got a little slap happy...it could only be expected that people get hurt. He wished he could muster up more righteous indignation.

"Not right. I'm fine," he muttered.

Jorri raised an eyebrow. "Yeah...you're not right," she said in response to Sands' incoherent statement.

Shooter laughed slowly. "I couldda tole you that!" he chortled. Tokey turned and punched Shooter in his good shoulder.

"Shut up! You're gonna piss him off and make him go ape shit again!" she hissed.

"I don't go apeshit," Sands grumbled. "The people I injure usually deserve it."

"Ooh, Angel of Death. Good one. But you also know that saying that could land you in jail and it'd be easier to admit mental deficiency. No offense, Officer, but even you would admit it's the way to go." House spared a look of distaste for the cop gripping Shooter.

"Mental deficiency?" Sands and Merrie echoed.

"Bull shit," Sands snapped.

"I kind of have to agree with him, House," Merrie frowned.

"And multiple personalities are normal?" House countered.

"Wha's wrong with multiple personalities?" Shooter asked defensively.

"Oh shut up, Shooter!" Tokey growled. "You say he's got MPD?" she interrogated House, a spark of excitement in her eyes.

"I do not have MPD and can some one please fix my leg before I freak out?"

"You didn't even let him get to surgery first?" Merrie rounded on House.

"Well, if there's going to be a psycho murderer running around this hospital, it's kind of my job to make sure he's not in a position to murder people, isn't it?" House asked casually.

"Goddamn it, I am not a murderer," Sands yelled. The ensuing silence was an uncomfortable one.

Shooter snickered, "Well we've yet to find out. An' you certainly have tried to kill Morty here." He gestured to his shoulder and leg.

Jorri looked at Shooter perplexed. "He refers to himself in third person," she stated aloud somewhat towards House. She was an intern studying psychology, so anything that seemed remotely psychotic she jumped on it.

Sands hopped on it as well. "He's the one with MPD. Talk to him. Now will you stop screwing the pooch and look at my leg?"

"We'll get you in the ER shortly," Merrie nodded with a glare for House, who shrugged.

"Excuse mah?" Shooter fixed a glare first at Jorri for voicing her thoughts, then at Sands. "Ah most certainly don' have none of this MPD ya'll be speakin' of." He crossed his arms defiantly.

Tokey snorted. "Sure you don't, Shooter." She muttered it under her breath which warranted a death glare from Shooter.

The cop looked between Sands and Shooter. Sands was the accused gunmen, while Nicole was the one caught with the weapon. Shooter was definitely not very safe judging by his little show earlier in the ER. He turned to Merrie. "I can assist you in escorting him if he-" He nodded to House. "-can keep an eye on Mr. Rainey here." He looked at the two doctors waiting for an answer.

House eyed Shooter. He looked rather typical and boring. A little messy, a little nerdy, and completely prosaic. Even the southern accent couldn't save him.

"Not my line of work. Jorri can watch him," House answered shortly. Merrie rolled her eyes. Some people might have mistaken him for immature and she enjoyed it, but now was not the time.

"All I know, is that he has to be fixed up," she gestured at Sands. "If you'll let me do my job, I think we'll all be just a little happier."

"But I am happy. I'm the happiest man in the world," House pointed out.

"Goddamn it, hurry up!" Sands hissed. His endorphin rush was ebbing and his leg was starting to hurt. A lot.

Jorri began to protest but was cut off by a look from House. "Fine," she said, taking hold of Shooter's arm. This might be a good learning experience. "So, Mr. Rainey, you're not from around these parts are you?" she asked, referring to his accent.

"First off, mah name's John, John Shooter. I'm a dairy farmer from Miss'ippi."

"Hm. That's very interesting," Jorri jotted down some notes on a pad she was carrying.

Tokey watched Sands who was getting annoyed. "You might want to steer clear of him when he gets pissed if you can't prevent him from getting angry. He tends to get a wee bit feisty," she warned Merrie.

Sands' knuckles were turning white from the grip he had on the arms of the gurney. A shattered fibula was no laughing matter. Merrie took this as a sign to get moving and quickly wheeled him out, the cop dogging her steps.

House got to his feet as well. "I suggest you get him to the waiting room since he's obviously not sick or disabled and doesn't need immediate help. I'm getting a sandwich."

"Wha-? Wait! He thinks he's a dairy farmer from Mississippi! That doesn't require immediate medical attention?" Jorri called after House pointlessly. She sighed, and turned to Shooter. "You hungry?" she asked.

Shooter perked up a little. "Is there any corn?"

Jorri's brow puckered. "Corn? I don't know. Perhaps." She turned to pull Shooter behind her after the quickly fleeing House. "Dr. House! Wait! We're coming with you. Mr. Rain-er Shooter wants some corn!"

Tokey frowned as everyone left her standing in the middle of the room. She looked towards the departing Sands and then to Jorri dragging Shooter along behind House. She shrugged her shoulders. It would probably be more amusing to watch the interaction between House and the others than a waiting room. She turned and hurried after Jorri.

_Corn? _House thought._ What kind of a hospital has corn? Or what sane hospital. They'd better have a Reuben sandwich or this day will just be shot to hell._

He didn't slow his gait. If they really wanted to catch up with him, they could.

Jorri dragged Shooter the whole way until they caught up with the limping doctor. Once they were even, it was fairly easy to keep up with him. He walked at a steady clip, despite his limp, thus they too had to keep a good pace. When they reached the cafeteria, they got in line behind House. Jorri raised an eyebrow at House's choice of sandwich. "Rueben? I would've thought you more a ham and cheese person," she commented.

Shooter was scanning the various dishes for any sign of corn.

"Ham and cheese is the byproduct of a mother too lazy to pack her children a proper lunch. And if she's really cruel, she'll put pickles on it," House muttered, sliding his tray along.

Jorri made a face as she grabbed a turkey on wheat. She offered one to Shooter who shook his head vigorously. She shrugged. Far be it from her to stop him if he only wanted corn.

Indeed Shooter's eyes were set on corn. As they moved along the line, his eyes lit up upon spotting a big pan of mini corn on the cobs. He gave the cook a big grin. "I want 6 of those cobs," he demanded impatiently.

Jorri looked at him bemusedly. "You gonna eat all those, Mr. Shooter?"

Shooter's jaw clenched as she looked at him. He pulled the tray of corn to his chest. "Yessum," he said firmly.

"Maybe he's pregnant. That would explain the craving for corn and the need to get six ears," House tossed back, leaning against the counter to pay for his sandwich.

Shooter's eye twitched. "Jes who do you think you are? You ain't nuthin but a wannabe sherink," he drawled, glaring at House. "You jes don't have the rightful taste."

"I'm not a 'wannabe' shrink. I'm a doctor who saw a golden opportunity to use his limited psychology skills to get away from a bunch of greed heads at my last job. Moot now, I hear he left, but I think it'd do my coworkers good to get along on their own. And for your information, corn's nasty." House made a face before turning and limping into the cafeteria. He sat down at an empty table, eager for some alone time to ponder this strange new case.

Shooter's eyes narrowed. "Corn is not nasty!" he yelled. He set his tray down at House's table and was about to lunge across it when Tokey caught up to them and grabbed him by the collar.

"Easy there, pilgrim. Don't let him get your blood pressure up. That's all he's trying to do, really." She gave House a bored look.

"I'm a bad boy," House smirked. Why these people wouldn't leave him alone was entirely beyond him, but they were beginning to give him a headache: the bad kind. The kind that warred with his leg just as his last Vicodin was wearing off.

Jorri chuckled, "Naw, you're just permanently cranky."

Shooter's eye was twitching like mad as he sat down to his corn.

"Don't even think about it," Tokey remarked, sitting down beside him. "Just eat your corn and shut your mouth." She turned to House. "Is there any sort of medication for MPD?" She asked, reaching over to his plate to steal a piece of corned beef.

"I wouldn't know." House pulled the sandwich away from wandering fingers and tore a bite out of it. "I'm not a psychiatrist. It's funny. I keep telling people that, but they don't seem to hear me. Maybe I'm just imagining it all."

"Hm..." Tokey pondered this. "Well then, perhaps you could prescribe something for Sands so he's not as erm...violent? Or something for Shooter to calm his nerves. He gets uber anxious at times. I do believe regular physicians can prescribe these sorts of medication, no?"

"I don't know if you've been watching my pill habits, but not all ailments, injuries, psychiatric problems, splinters, cuts or hangnails can be solved by medication."

"Then what exactly do you take yours for?" She asked noting the little pill he'd popped into his mouth earlier when Sands was present. She rested her chin in her palm, watching him curiously.

"Because it's fun," he said simply.

"Really, now?" Tokey said, watching as Shooter gripped a plastic knife a little too tightly and glared at House. She reached over and extracted the knife from his fingers. "Really though, you've gotta do something about him before he hurts you or himself in the process. Whether you like it or not, you're the doc," she said pointedly.

"So I take it that's the not so friendly personality," House eyed Shooter critically. "He'll be right up my alley."

"You enjoy getting into altercations with psychotic patients then?" she mused.

"It's a blast. You should try it sometime."

"Been there done that. Well, of course they weren't patients then, but that's beside the point. Harrison was really quite annoying. Sands' weaker half by far." Tokey shrugged, noticing that Shooter had taken up a fork. She sighed, grabbing it from him forcefully. "Just eat the goddamned corn!" Tokey cried exasperatedly.

Shooter fixed her with a glare. "Ahm gittin' there!"

"Harrison, who's Harrison?"

Tokey rolled her eyes exasperated. "One of Sands' little friends."

"He's a liddle wuss is what he is." Shooter said, eyes narrowing in recollection of the duel they'd had. "Thought he was gonna outsmart me. Hah!"

"And what happened that made you all come here?"

Another eye roll from Tokey. "Well gee, I dunno...maybe because we had wounds? Oh yeah, and our dear friend Tom is possibly dying? Yeah, Sands shot him couple times. Once in the stomach. You were a physician were you not? You know that a bullet wound to the abdomen results in a loss of blood. Lots and lots of blood."

Shooter shuddered at this, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked around, blinking. "Where are we?" he asked, cowering towards the only familiarity: Tokey.

"Get off of me!" she growled, shoving back into his own chair.

"Now, children, play nice. If you'd shut up and listen, maybe you'd hear me right. What led to the shooting?" Lord how House hated people.

"How the hell should we know?" Tokey shot at him. "You're the one with the title 'Psychiatrist,' not us."

Mort spoke up timidly. "He doesn't much like me."

"Did you notice anything about him? Was he different, did he sound different, did he suddenly get unexplainably weird like your friend here?" House gestured at Mort. "I can't guess what your friend's got until you start talking."

"Hey watch your tone, buddy!" Tokey snarled. "He just came back from the lake like that. He was kind of...weird."

_I will not hurt them. I will not hurt them. I will not hurt them..._House thought.

"You said he came back after the first one. What was he like between the time he came back and the time the ambulance came? What is he supposed to be like? I need answers."

"He's a real cocky, arrogant, bastard. He's full of that charming wit he was attempting back there. I thought you'd met him before." Her eyes narrowed at him. "Before the ambulance came he went berserk. He turned on Tom. He just freaked! He shot Tom in the stomach and then in the arm and then he chucked a knife at me and Shooter here-"

"Mort!" he growled.

"Whatever." Tokey shrugged. "Mort tried to tackle him, but he threw him off. Then he went after DB, and DB shot him, purely in self defense." She finished, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Those are some interesting symptoms..." House mused. He stood up, his sandwich gone. "You can stay in here, but I don't recommend it. You might find out what's really in the three bean salad."

"Where are _you_ going?" Jorri asked, standing to follow. As fascinating as these...people were, she'd much rather follow the snarky doc around.

"Yes where _are_ you going?" Tokey frowned. He was supposed to be helping the psychos, not running from three bean salad. Tokey frowned thoughtfully. "Might not be a bad experience. I'm not too crazy about beans to begin with."

"Are you kidding? They're good for your heart. And I work best alone. So, I bid you all good day," House smiled tightly and limped off to his lair to try and figure out what was wrong with Sam. Samson? Sidney? Whatever his name was.

Tokey turned to Mort and shrugged. "Eh. I guess we'll deal without the doc's help. You want to go see how Tom is doing?" she asked for lack of anything better to do. Mort shrugged noncommittally. Tokey stood, pulling Mort-who was still in cuffs-with her. "Nice to meet ya." She waved at Jorri, leaving her sitting by herself with her notes.

XXX

Sands groaned, his vision woozy. His hand and legs seemed disjointed and full of painkillers while he, on the whole, felt like crap. The smell of antiseptic, not the white blur was what tipped him off about the hospital

_Goddamn, not again... _

He shifted, trying to escape or get comfortable, he wasn't sure which.

"Easy there, you're gonna hurt yourself more," Merrie said. He began to move more frantically. "Stop it!" she chided, swatting at his hand like a small childs. "You're in a room. They got your leg taken care of. It wasn't bad at all, just a flesh wound." She smiled warmly at him.

"And my hand and thigh too, huh?" he murmured. He was vaguely amazed that he'd been able to form a coherent sentence.

"Yes, yes, those too. Those were stitched up without a problem." She took his hand, showing him the bandage over it. "See? All wrapped up!"

"So by rights I should be able to leave."

"Well..." Merrie bit her lip. "They need to watch for infection. It's quite common in bullet wounds for infections to start within the first 24 hours." She looked at him apologetically.

"Oh my Christ," Sands sighed. "You're lucky I'm too drugged to give a damn."

Merrie grinned goofily, mumbling something about a Duke. "You need to have the drugs. They help with the pain, and make everything bright and cheery." She smiled dreamily.

Sands frowned, generally looking like the most uncheery person on the planet right then.

"Well, for most of us they work," she muttered. "But I bet if you have more-"

"NO! Dear God, no more," Sands snapped. His head was swimming. He was going to fly out the window if he wasn't careful. Any more drugs and he would.

Merrie leapt back. "Ok! No more!" she shouted. She looked around cautiously to make sure that there weren't any unidentified flying objects coming towards her, then heaved a huge sigh of relief. "It's all clear," she breathed. "Are you feeling any better now?"

"Nope. I still feel like shit, thanks for asking."

"Oh," Merrie said dejected. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Food. Good food. Mexican. Step on it."

"Oh! Ok!" Merrie did a little jump, then calmed down with a frown. "Where do I get some?"

"I don't live here, I wouldn't know," Sands rolled his eyes.

"Oh...right. Well then! I'll go erm…get some!" she said and left the room nearly running into Sara.

"This isn't the orgy, that's next door," Sands piped up.

"Oh, I'm not interested. Thank you though!" Merrie called out. She turned to Sara. "What are you doing over here? Is everything ok with that other guy?"

"He's still passed out," Sara sighed. "I wish he didn't think I hated him."

Merrie looked taken aback. "You? Hate someone? Meh! Never! Why would he think that?"

"Because I left him after that bastard Shooter ran away. I figured he'd be better off if I wasn't dogging him and getting in the way," she sighed. "But I heard this guy Sheldon was his partner and might have some answers."

Merrie frowned, "Answers to what questions? Oh hey! Do you know where to get good Mexican food? That's what he's craving." She nodded her head in the direction of Sands, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Little Mexico?" Sara shrugged. "That's the only place I'm familiar with."

Merrie nodded and gave Sara a thumbs up. "Right! Thanks! I'll be back shortly." She nodded again, and ducked out of the room only to pop her head back in. "What exactly did you want?" she asked Sands.

"Surprise me. Something so outlandish that you've never heard of it before," Sands drawled. His head was back, watching the shadows on the ceiling.

"Alright! Will do! You-" She waggled her finger at Sara. "Don't stress him too much, ok?"

"Try not to," Sara rolled her eyes and took a seat in one of the chairs in the corner. "Word is you know Tom McCarthy."

"Tommy Boy's an asshole, but I know him," Sands said curtly, not looking at Sara.

"So you're not his friend?" She asked.

"I'm nobody's friend. But I'm being melodramatic. I know him about as well as I'd know a family member, somewhat distant, mother's cousin's daughter's step-father's aunt twice removed."

Sara's face contorted in confusion. "Huh?" she asked. "How long have you known him?"

"Beats me. A year? Little less than a year? He's my big poppi," Sands muttered.

Sara frowned, not the least bit amused. "Is that some sort of joke? Your poppi?"

"He follows me around and makes sure I don't skin my knees. It's a big world out there and I just love to fall down and go boom."

"I see. And do you offer _him_ anything?" she asked skeptically.

"I haven't killed him yet, have I?" Sands sneered.

_Almost did._

"No I didn't."

_Sorry. _**I** _did. You were a pussy and hid in the fucking corner._

"You bastard..." Sands whispered.

Sara frowned. "Excuse me?" She said. "Hey, wait a minute! Did you just call me a bastard?" She asked, standing with her hands on her hips.

He started, shaken out of his conversation. "Bastard? I'm sorry, but you're not nearly mean enough. No, I just...had a bad epiphany is all."

Sara went towards him cautiously. "Are you feeling well?" She asked as she placed the back of her hand against his cheek. He pulled away. He hated to be touched.

"Listen, if you want to babble about Tommy Boy, do it now, or get out."

Sara's eyes narrowed. "Everyone says you did it," she said glaring at him. "Why?"

"Did what?" he sighed.

"Shot him, you idiot!" She smacked his shoulder. "Twice!"

"Touch me again and I'll fucking strangle you," he hissed. His eyes narrowed, but it wasn't in anger. He looked thoughtful and bemused. "Shit."

She wasn't so much frightened by his outburst as she was disturbed by his confusion. "What? What is it?" she frowned. "You did shoot him, right? Both that girl and Shooter said you did. If you didn't, I swear I'm going after that-that Shooter!" She spat, glaring as she waited for Sands to answer. She was going to ream Shooter if he had lied by saying Sands had done it. But what incentive had that girl had for saying it as well? Sara bit her lip as she thought about exactly who said what.

"I didn't shoot him," Sands shook his head. "But I'm beginning to realize why people would think I did."

Sara quirked an eyebrow. "A penny for your thoughts?"

Sands wondered what the pros would be of baring his bleeding heart for the girl. Something about a clear conscious. Not quite enough.

"Sorry, Sugarbutt, confessional's closed."

Sara crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you ok?" She frowned, studying and attempting to read him.

"Now what ever gave you that idea?"

"Perhaps the look on your face as your mind was clicking. It looked like it was almost painful for you to think," she pointed out.

"Is this really a psychiatric hospital that just does illegal surgery on the side and I just missed something?"

Sara glowered. "Hey, I'm just trying to be friendly, but obviously you don't want to socialize." She turned to leave. Screw him if he wasn't going to give her the time of day. She didn't need to worry about him. Tom was the one in critical condition.

"I said I'd talk about Tom. We're not here to discuss my eccentricities."

She turned around. "Well then tell me how he got hurt. Why he was hurt?" She stood in the doorway with her arms still crossed, almost as if threatening to leave if he wouldn't talk about what she wanted to talk about.

"He probably mouthed off and got himself shot. Unless he was being noble and got in the way of a bullet meant for someone else. I'm not entirely sure myself."

"Mmhm. So he gets mouthy?" she asked with a smirk. "And he's noble?"

"Oh yeah, very noble," Sands rolled his eyes. "He's fricken Mother Theresa on wheels."

"On wheels?" Sara chuckled at that. "What has he done that's so noble?" she asked moving back into the room.

"He agreed to take me as a partner," Sands shrugged.

She laughed out loud. "Haha! That is noble isn't it? You've gotten him into loads of trouble I'll bet."

"Oodles," he replied seriously.

She chuckled, then grew somber. "So, what happened to you?" she pried, hoping it would reveal some answers about what had happened to Tom.

"If I knew, I'd be out the door shooting the man who did it," he pointed out.

"Oh..." She frowned with a sigh. A lot of help he was going to be. "Were you not conscious?"

"You could say that. But then, you also might say I went on autopilot."

"So it's possible...you could've shot him on autopilot then...is it not?"

"Anything's possible," he shrugged.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she self consciously took a step backwards. "You're not on autopilot now are you?" she asked hesitantly.

"If I were, you'd probably be dead."

She let out a breath of relief, then scowled again. "So you are homicidal when on autopilot," she mused.

"No, I'm on autopilot when I'm homicidal. There's a difference."

"Uh huh. Well, what makes you homicidal?" She was trying to gain an understanding of the man before her.

"You're doing it again," Sands warned.

"What?" she asked, utterly confused as to exactly what she was doing "again."

"You're trying to make it about me. It's not about me. I'm trying to be patient and not go insane, but you're making it a wee bit hard. Why is that?"

"Perhaps because you shouldn't go insane?" she offered. "What can I do to stop you from doing so?"

"Not talking about me and just saying whatever it is you've come to say. I thought I made that clear already."

"Fine, then. You want to hear what I came to say? If you lay a hand on Tom whatsoever, I will take you out." She glared at him.

"To dinner? I'd like that, I think. But only if it were between friends, and not a date. I couldn't handle the pressure."

"I'd strangle you." She elaborated to get her point across.

"Good luck with that," Sands smirked.

Her lip twitched. "You doubt me, do you? Would you like to take this outside and find out?"

"Big man, beating on a cripple. Good on you. I hope you sleep better tonight."

"Except for the fact that I'm a woman. So you don't think I'll do it?"

"I bet you'd try. You don't strike me as the kind to get off on cripple fights, though. You're too honourable," Sands smiled lazily.

"Well then, let's get you better first. Then you can see what I'm really made of."

"Is this the point where I say, 'Bring it'?"

She moved closer towards him. "Would you like me to?" She very nearly snarled it, getting quite irritated by his mind games. Sands laughed. This was the kind of anger he could deal with. It was a lot more fun to piss someone else off than to lose control himself.

"If you think your conscience can bear it, by all means, 'bring it.'"

Her eyes narrowed as she threw out her fist. "You're a bastard you know that?" she growled. Sands blinked as the fist cracked across his cheek. Well...that had hurt.

"Thanks. Always good to get some feedback."

She glared at him and swung again, but this time he caught her wrist hard, causing her to gasp in surprise as a tinge of pain shot through her wrist.

"You're tempting fate, chica. Stop it," he said quietly.

"You could've killed Tom!" she yelled. "He could still die...What caused you to go homicidal and on autopilot?" She asked quietly. "Surely you remember something."

"I remember two things: Jack and shit, and Jack left town. Now get the hell out of my room before I kill you."

Sara laughed. "Hah! With _what_?"

"I'm mysterious like that. Get out."

Sara glared at him. "No! You're a murderer!" she replied.

"I have yet to kill anybody. However, if you ask nicely, maybe you'll see my first."

Sara crossed her arms over her chest. "I'd like to see you try!" she scoffed.

"I shot Tom. Twice. And I enjoyed every second of it."

"So you admit it now?" she asked with a glare. She ignored the previous revelation of his "autopilot" drive.

"I've always admitted it. It's the bitch Sands who doesn't," Sands smirked. He was going to get a rise out of Sara one way or the other. And if he had to do it by capitalizing on the thing he hated most, so be it. "You know what, I'd shoot him again. I'd shoot his balls off. And when he screamed in pain, I'd shoot him again, and again, and again until he was nothing more than a mound of meat. How's that for a confession?"

Her eyes shot daggers at him. "You bastard!"

She hissed and lunged towards him, her fingers wrapping around his neck. His neck muscles tightened beneath her fingers as he'd learned in the CIA. They wouldn't hold long, but hopefully long enough. He brought his cast bound hand up behind her and smashed it down on her head as hard as he could from the awkward position. It was enough to make her slump on the bed, dazedly. He took advantage of the pause and wrapped the IV tube around her neck several times to ensure it wouldn't break easily. He tightened it slowly, millimeters at a time.

"Any last words, bitch?" he whispered in her ear. Before she could utter anything, the door burst open and Merrie strolled in.

"I got a little bit of everything! Some tacos, some burritos, some nachos, some chimichangas, some tostadas, some-" She looked up from the bag and her mouth dropped open in shock. "What are you doing?" she squeaked.

Merrie's entrance had startled Sands into looking upwards, taking his hand with the IV tube with it. He glanced back at Sara who looked to be in considerable distress. He shrugged innocently at Merrie and snapped Sara's neck to stop the struggling.

"Oops."

"Y-you killed her," she stated dumbly. Merrie stared at Sands speechless. She looked from Sara's lifeless body to Sands' wicked grin. She dropped the bag of food, turned, and fled from the room without a sound.

"Damn," Sands sighed. He really did have to stop being so rash. He shoved Sara off and decided that he had to run. To where or how he didn't know, but he had to get away. Headquarters would be a safe bet. He could heal in peace and be ready to run again if he had to. He'd go to Headquarters, but he needed help. And last he'd heard, he owed Dangerbabe a favour.

Tokey was pacing the hall outside where Tom was. She was getting antsy. She was jonesing for a cigarette badly. Finally, she succumbed to the urge, grabbed Mort-still in cuffs-and dragged him outside the hospital with her for a smoke. She lit up and inhaled quickly, closing her eyes in satisfaction.

Mort watched longingly and was about to open his mouth to ask for one when Sands came limping out of the hospital. "Hey!" he cried. "There goes Sands!" He pointed.

Sands had commandeered a crutch and was awkwardly trying to avoid any contact with his left leg and the ground. The drugs helped him ignore the pain, while necessity helped him continue in naught but a T-shirt and a long, buttoned-up overcoat. His pants had foiled him for the second time in one week.

Tokey whirled around and stared at Sands, her mouth hanging open. She jogged up to where he was limping, Mort tagging along. "What are you doing?" she asked, eyeing his attire. "And what are you wearing?"

"The latest in Parisian fashion," he grunted, still hobbling along. "I'm busting DB out."

"Well I'm coming too!" Tokey announced determinedly, following along beside him. Mort followed along behind.

"Wait, how are we going to get to the station?" he asked quietly.

"You'd be amazed at how little people care for the right price."

Sands made it to the curb with Tokey and Mort at his side. He flung his casted arm upwards. A taxi pulled up eventually, but the driver looked like he had second thoughts.

"The county jail. You can keep the change," Sands said calmly, holding up a wad of cash.

Tokey and Mort climbed in behind him. Mort was the last one in; he glanced at Tokey questioningly, as it was difficult to close the door with the cuffs. She scowled and reached over him, slamming the door shut.

The ride was a short one but it to take seemed ages for Tokey, who was crammed between two men who kept elbowing her. When they arrived at the station, they filed out and Tokey breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"What now?" she asked, looking at Sands. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Don't do anything stupid," he answered acidly. He didn't wait for a response, he entered the station with a determined set to his jaw. Tokey glowered and followed him in. She wanted in on part of the action.

When they went in, Mort held up his cuffed wrists. "Hey! Can someone get these off me?" he shouted.

Several cops looked up curiously, then turned away, uninterested.

Mort's eye began to twitch, and he started to crack his jaw when Tokey laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't," she said sternly, then she turned to the cops. "Somebody get these damn cuffs off him before he goes psycho on you all! Cuffs will be no hindrance to him then!"

Sands whirled around with a glare that covered his wince of pain. "What the hell are you thinking? Those are the only things keeping you from danger if he goes berserk! The cuffs stay," he warned the cop. "We've got more important issues at hand."

"Sheesh! Alright!" Tokey said with a roll of her eyes. "But I doubt they will be that much of a help." She looked at Mort, and shrugged her shoulders. "Sorry."

Mort glowered at Sands. "Just how do you think you're gonna bust that lady out of here?" he asked rather loudly.

Sands sighed as cops snapped to action with guns aimed at the trio.

"I'm sorry, my friend has Turret's Syndrome. Can't control what he says," he shrugged. "Nobody's busting anybody out."

"He's trying to bust that lady out that was brought in earlier!" Mort cried, gesturing with his cuffed hands.

Tokey rolled her eyes. "Geez! Would you shut up?" she hissed.

Mort glared at her. Sure she'd tried to help him but now she was sticking up for Sands. "That other CIA agent-the blind one!" He looked frantically from cop to cop.

"Tokey, take him outside please." Sands was shaking from barely held restraint.

_Come on, brain the stupid little fuck!_

Sands shook the voice off and breathed deeply. Tokey nodded and did as Sands said. He was trying to spring DB, after all.

Mort tried to fight her, but she kneed him in the back while gripping his bad shoulder and shoved him out the door. "Now shut up and don't say a word, or I'll go fetch Sands and let him to unleash his wrath." She gave Mort a pointed look.

Once he was sure Mort wouldn't be any more trouble Sands turned to the still edgy cops.

"Listen, I'd like to bail out someone. I'm not really sure if she's up for bail though," he murmured thoughtfully.

The cop smirked. "Lemme guess, the blind agent?" He chuckled. "Nope she's not up for bail. She was caught holding a weapon in a room where 2 people were shot." He eyed Sands' many bandages. "I'm assuming one of 'em is you?" he asked.

Sands scuffed his foot absently. "Yeah, but it was an accident. Listen, it's all a misunderstanding. I'll testify. But you've gotta let her out."

"Nope. Sorry, no can do." The cop responded with a wistful smile, not sorry in the least. He told this to people day in and day out; it was nothing new to deny someone bail.

"Yeah, but you see...she's CIA. I'm CIA. I've got clearance to get her out. Get her out of there now."

Once again, the cop shook his head seemingly regretful. "I'm sorry sir, I can't."

"Okay, I really didn't want to have to say this, but you leave me no choice. She...she's a lycanthrope." Sands shook his head. "Quite tragic, really."

The cop snorted. "That's a new one. Care explaining that to me? How'd she get it, and what are the symptoms?"

"She got bit, sir. And I don't know about you, but she's king hell to hang out with on a full moon." Sands looked as sincere as possible. And somehow, he sort of thought DB would enjoy the lies he was feeding the cop.

The cop's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked warily.

"She just goes insane. Have you ever seen Hannibal?"

The cop swallowed, his eyes wide as he nodded. "Yeah. Like that?"

Sands mimicked the wide-eyed fear in spades, but with every bit of honesty he could muster. He wasn't the best liar in the Company for nothing. "Just like that."

The cop's Adam's apple bobbed as he watched Sands. "Are-are you certain?"

Sands carefully undid the bandage on his thigh and presented the wound to the cop.

"I wasn't careful last night and it wasn't quite the full moon then." He reapplied the bandage over the vicious knife-turned-animal wound. "You release her to me, I'll keep her safe, ok? I've been doing it for awhile now."

The cop turned to another that was standing beside him, chewing on a nail. He nodded, and the first cop turned back to Sands. "I guess...we don't want no problems back here." He bit his lip, then nodded again, slowly. "First I gotta check with the sheriff. You wait right here." He jabbed his finger in Sands' direction and disappeared into an office.

Sands sighed and nodded. For not having done anything too illegal, he had to admit that he'd done a bang up job. He deserved a cookie for that. He resisted the urge to scratch the patch on his thigh. The gauze was chafing something fierce, but he didn't want to be thought of as the half-naked guy who scratched himself in police stations. It cut down on his coolness factor.

The cop emerged from the sheriff's office and approached Sands. "The sheriff said that we can release her on a $2500 bail," he said.

"$2500 it is." Sands took out another roll of cash out of the pocket. "We square?"

The cop's eyes widened in surprise as he took the cash. "Uh...yeah...just a minute."

He turned to another cop and handed him the money. Then he disappeared down a long dimly lit corridor. He returned a few minutes later with a mouthy DB.

"You'd better have a good reason for not getting me out sooner," she snarled, not caring who was on the receiving end.

"I was a bit caught up if you'll forgive me. You've got a sidekick waiting outside," Sands said casually. DB was stunned. Sands? Psycho Sands had bailed her out?

Tokey had kept a strong hold on Mort who was fidgeting anxiously. She sighed, finishing her cigarette, and glanced into the station. When she saw her mentor, her eyes lit up. She burst through the door so fast, Mort nearly ran right into it.

"DB!" she cried excitedly, approaching as quickly as she could while dragging Mort behind her.

"Tokey? Well...this was unexpected. Am I free?"

"For the moment, let's go before they change their minds, ok?" Sands whispered with a smart smile for the cops.

"What you thought we'd leave you here?" Tokey asked.

The cops watched their little reunion with mild amusement. Tokey let go of Mort and took hold of DB's arm to help her out of the station. Mort took this opportunity presented.

He slunk back towards the cops as Tokey and DB headed towards the door. "Now will you take the cuffs off? He's the one that's psycho! Shot a guy twice. Shot me twice!" He gestured to his wounds, his eyes darting frantically to Sands, willing the cops to do something fast.

Sands rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry officers. He belongs in the hospital's psych ward, but it was my day to take him outside and show him around. I had to bail Nicole out too so I took him with me. He means well, he's just not all there." He made the universal sign of the insane

"No! No, you don't understand! Don't listen to him! He talks to himself and has people in his head! He-there's someone in there called Harrison that doesn't like to be called Harry and there's another that that's homicidal that went after Tom and me and DB and Tokey!" He said this all in a rush, his face turning red from lack of oxygen. He shied away from Sands as he came towards him. "NO! Just look at him! He doesn't even look sane!" Mort cried.

Sands grinned sheepishly and led Mort to the door with a tight grip on his shoulder.

"Sorry to bother you, kind sirs. You won't regret this."

"No! Let me go!" Mort struggled as Sands ushered him out the door, the cops watching with perplexed expressions.

"I think they're both nuts..." one muttered.

"Why do you insist upon taking me with you when you wreck havoc?" Mort asked.

Tokey's lips twitched. "So he can blame his insanity on you."

Sands waited until he was sure he was out of the cops' range of sight before shooting a dirty look at Tokey.

"I've come to grips with my craziness. And I would never blame my shit on someone else. Don't you fucking think otherwise."

Tokey gave a little laugh. "What personality is this, 'Mr. I've got my panties in a wad'?"

Mort held back a laugh, not wanting to see Sands' wrath directed at him again so soon.

Sands knew he was being bated. He none to gently shoved Mort at DB who grunted from the unexpected impact. Sands dug into his pocket and with drew his tobacco and rolling paper. He couldn't imagine how long it had been since his last one, nor did he care to find out. He rolled a cigarette surely and quickly, sticking it between his lips before he did something really bad. The nicotine was sweet.

"I am me. Now lemme alone," he muttered.

Tokey shrugged. "Fine...sure." She turned to help DB steady herself. "Are you sure you don't need a cigarette after the past 24 hours?"

Mort looked at her longingly, licking his lips. "I wouldn't mind having one."

Tokey ignored him waiting for DB's answer.

"I don't smoke," DB answered. She wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to answer that question before she freaked. Smoking just wasn't her thing. Suddenly Sands turned, a look of concentration on his face.

"Listen. I suggest you both hightail it back to head quarters and get yourself some legal help from the Company. There's nothing I like more than running from the police, but I didn't just shell out $2500 for no reason. Get a lawyer on it."

Tokey frowned, and looked to her trainer. "DB?" she asked. Mort inched away from Sands, towards DB and Tokey. If they were going to be going away from Sands, he was all game to go with them.

"We were told to bring you back with us," DB pointed out.

"Suffice it to say I'm not going back just yet. I've got to make myself scarce. And I'll need a driver so I'll be taking Mort with me."

"And we're supposed to trust you to come back?"

"You can't trust me. But I bailed you out. Doesn't that count for something?"

Tokey snorted. "Trust you?"

Mort shook his head. "Nuh uh. I'll stick with them." He said, hiding behind DB and Tokey.

"You want to be put on trial and endure capital punishment? Golly, you must have a death wish," Sands scowled.

Mort frowned and hesitated. "Why would I be put to death for something I didn't do?"

_Or don't know you did..._

Mort shook his head. "They can't sentence an innocent! Can they?" he asked DB doubtfully. "You know I'm innocent, right?"

"You're as innocent as an escaped convict," Sands spat.

"Mort, you're going to go on trial. Your innocence has yet to be decided," DB glared at Sands.

"Mort, think about it. I'm your only means of escape right now. You go with them, you're facing almost certain death. You stay on your own, someone else is going to come looking for you. Who can better protect you than me?" Sands asked forcefully.

"And who's going to protect me from you?" Mort countered, stepping out from behind the women. "You shot me twice. Who's to say you won't do it again? Only this time, you might get me in the head, or perhaps in the stomach like Tom." He stood at his full height to look Sands in the eye.

"Don't piss me off. I'm a decent person when you don't piss me off," Sands stated simply.

"Hah! You don't know how to _be_ a decent person!" Mort said, giving him a shove. "You showed up pissed and have been ever since. That or talked to yourself and that's a whole mood all in its own."

"Morty, do you really want me to persuade you to see things my way? I can guarantee you won't like it."

"No need to tell me that! I know I won't like it!" He scowled, and turned to go back down the street towards the police station. "Get the damn cuffs off," he muttered.

Tokey quirked an eyebrow at Sands. "You ready to go, DB?" she asked. She'd seen enough in the past 24 hours to tide her over until she went on a real case.

"I'll take the cuffs off if you'll get your ass back over here," Sands gritted his teeth. DB hadn't seen him act this civil before. She rather wanted to hear the show.

Mort stopped and turned around, glaring at Sands. "What if I don't believe you?"

"They think you're insane. Are they going to help you? Once again, I'm your best choice," Sands replied, holding up something that looked suspiciously like a lock pick. Mort grunted and stalked back over to Sands and held out his hands.

"Uncuff me then!" he demanded.

"Are you going to cooperate?"

Mort glared at him. "Just what are you insinuating about 'cooperating'?"

"You come with me. That's it. If we came across a car, I'd appreciate it if you could drive. We both need to get the hell out of here. No offense," he added to DB.

"Leave us for the wolves while you escape? Charming," Nicole said dryly.

"Pretty much. How's about it, Mort?"

Mort didn't like it, not one bit. He wanted nothing to do with Sands. He'd had enough of him to last him a lifetime. But he wanted to deal with authorities even less. "Fine," he grumbled, shaking his wrists for Sands to take the cuffs off.

"And we're supposed to let you go?" DB asked.

"It's that or you owe me $2500."

"You're kidding."

"Can we please go? I want to get some threads and catch a flight out of here."

DB sighed. Damn his charm. "Go."

"Oh, and for your information. You're a lycanthrope and tonight's the full moon," Sands tossed back. He grabbed Mort's hand and tugged him around the corner out of sight.

"Hey!" Mort protested. "You said you were going to uncuff me!" He stopped, digging his heels in the ground biting his tongue at the pain that shot though his shoulder as Sands tugged at his wrists.

_Goddamn it, leave him!_

"Okay, okay, fine. But shit, you'd better not run off or so help me..." Sands gave a final twist of the pick and the handcuff swung open. "Come on. Airport."

"Airport?" Mort still didn't move. "Why are we going to the airport? Where are we going?"

"I told you, we have to leave. Maybe west coast. Unless you'd rather drive there."

Mort frowned. "I'm innocent. I don't want to leave."

"The criminal always believes he's innocent until the time he's in the electric chair. Now have you forgotten our deal already?"

"What deal?" Mort asked with the smallest of smirks, his feet still rooted to the spot.

Sands shrugged, his hand ghosting out of the trench coat's pocket, briefly allowing for a flash of the gun nestled there. His hands slipped back inside before people could get suspicious.

"I wouldn't know."

Mort's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't shoot me out here in front of all these people." He crossed his arms over his chest, almost daring him to.

"Do you want me to?"

Mort's cockiness dimmed a bit. "You wouldn't do it, so it doesn't matter." He started to turn to go...who knows where.

"I did it at the cabin, didn't I, Sherlock?"

Mort turned back around. "But there weren't witnesses then." He sighed, knowing that was the least of Sands' worries.

"You weren't a witness? Tokey, Tom and DB weren't? I don't know about you, but that's an awful risk to run when any one of you could have run outside and driven to safety."

"Right. So tell me why again we're 'running'?" He glowered, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Because you promised to be good if I took the cuffs off you. Haven't you ever wanted a change of scenery once in your life? Besides, innocent or not, someone will come after you, if not me."

Mort sighed. "Fine. Let's just go!" he spat, irritated. Sands was right, someone would be after him, most likely Dave Newsome, the annoying sheriff that looked like he'd just stepped out of the Andy Griffith show. At least Mort could somewhat predict Sands' actions.

"Then let's go."

**Honor Roll: Depplove: **Someone special in chapter 10? Who might that be? ;) Well we got another chapter out of HANSA. Hope you limed! **Cornfreak: **You like corn? We got corn. Lots of corn. It's a permanent accessory, don't ya know. **Enesvy: **I know, how'd you get out without a scratch? Can we trade places? Please? Better a lycanthrope than a skewered Tokey. Or skewered Fiend…


	12. Lucky Number 3

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The world is falling down around Sheldon Jeffrey Sands and Morton Rainey. What's the next step towards a grander plan?

**Disclaimer**: The town of North Conway doesn't belong to us, none of its trappings belong to us, and certainly the lovely young girl doesn't belong to us either.

**Author's Notes: **Thus begins a life on the run for SJ and Mort. And begins the woes of Tom, but we won't dwell on the angst too long. Have fun, Honour Roll at the end.

**Lucky Number 3**

Mort had been driving for the past hour, heading west, and was growing tired. It had been a long night, and he'd gotten very little sleep. "Uh, Sands? Can we stop for some coffee?"

Sands grunted, startled out of his doze. "Wha?"

"I'm fucking tired!" Mort growled, annoyed that Sands had been just laying there snoozing. "If you want me to keep going I need some caffeine! And some food..." he said as an afterthought, licking his lips slightly at the thought of Doritos.

Sands squinted at the road signs that drifted by. North Conway, N.H. Live Free or Die. Sands gave the state points for an original motto. They were on a sort of byway, Rt. 16.

"Take this right. I think I stayed in a motel around here on my way to Maine."

Mort whipped the vehicle rather sharply off the road, and onto a dusty street. He drove down it, searching for any sign of life. He frowned and glanced at Sands. "Where's it at?"

"You'll come to a T at the end of the road. Drive slow, there are stupid children around. Just before the T, there's a pizza shop. Take a right at the T, you'll hit the main drag, if you can call it that. There's Mexican, which...shit..." Sands murmured. "I never got my food at the hospital. Let's do Mexican."

Mort smirked. "Don't want me to run over the little chicks?" He laughed, and then his expression turned sour. "I don't like Mexican," he stated.

"You're going there anyway. I demand my Mexican. Grab a pizza if you must, but we're going to Cafe Noche."

Mort just grumbled to himself as he pulled up to the tiny Mexican restaurant. "I highly doubt it's authentic." He made no move of getting out of the car.

"Who needs authentic when you can get grease? I might warn you, they don't do take out. You're stuck here till I'm done."

Mort sunk down further in his seat. "Fine!" he mumbled. He wasn't going in there. Anything to spite Sands for dragging him along on his little road trip.

"Okay, buddy. You know I don't trust you, right?"

Mort looked at him warily. "Why should you? Why should I even trust _you_?"

"Listen, I don't want to have this argument now. You can stay in here handcuffed to the door or you can come with me."

He frowned at the thought of being cuffed again, and shook his head. "You won't cuff me in there will you?"

"No, but you'll be sitting in a corner so I can prevent your every escape attempt."

Mort thought about this for a long moment. "Alright," he agreed, "As long as I can have some chips, and maybe some salsa."

"They have chips and salsa. You coming?"

Mort nodded slowly and unbuckled his seat belt.

"Let's go, I'm starving," Sands said absently. He had crawled out of the seat, minding his leg. He'd finally tugged on a pair of pants and was set to take on anything. If only Mort would cooperate, this would be the best day this whole damn week.

XXX

Sands all but fell out of the car. The spicy pork dish had been wonderful. Mort insisted he didn't want Mexican and instead wolfed the plate of chips. Sands had directed them to a cheap motel where they found a room. He looked at Mort to try and guess if he had any real intentions to leave right then.

After having a rather large dish of chips and salsa, Mort felt in considerably better spirits. The motel didn't look too bad. It had a bed in it and that was all that mattered really. He was dead tired. He made his way around the car to where Sands was getting out with difficulty. He didn't offer to help, just stood watching Sands almost with pity. He couldn't get into the room and into bed until Sands unlocked the door of the room. And Mort certainly couldn't do anything else until he had rest. His foot began to tap impatiently.

Sands got the crutch on the ground and noticed Mort's look of impatience.

"Sorry, but I haven't exactly had experience hobbling around like you."

Mort's eyes narrowed. "I'd have preferred to pass on the experience."

"Same here. Tell me, who did what?"

"Huh?" Mort asked baffled. "You shot me..."

Sands shook his head and began limped up to the entrance.

"Who shot me in the leg, stabbed me in the thigh and ripped my hand to shreds?"

"Uh...I didn't shoot you..." Mort offered following him into the room. He collapsed gratefully on one of the beds.

"Gathered not. Would that be why Dangerbabe was in jail?"

"Mm," Mort made a noise as his eyes drifted shut.

Sands cocked an eyebrow. The snore that emanated from the other man's chest was enough to put off Sands' questioning. He had no doubt he'd get his answers, but not now.

He found his way to the armchair, forgoing the bed. He still didn't trust Mort as far as he could throw him. So he kept a watch on Mort until he allowed his eyes to drift shut, but his ears wide open. He'd pulled all-nighters before. This would be no different.

Mort awoke awhile later with a loud snort, and looked over at the other bed. It was empty! His lips curled into a sleepy grin, and he rolled over to get up.

Sands had the gun out and cocked in a split second. He hadn't opened his eyes, but there was a lazy smirk on his face.

"Get back in bed, John Wayne, I have you covered."

_Shit, shit, shit!_

Mort sighed and lay on his back, putting his hands up. "I was just gonna take a piss if that's ok with you? I don't particularly like to piss my pants..."

Sands cracked an eye open.

"Bathroom's the other way, John Wayne."

"Jeez! Do I have to get up on the right side of the bed?" He asked with a smirk at his weak pun.

"Yes. I'm a bit trigger happy, you know."

"I've noticed." Mort said bitterly, and rolled off the other side of the bed and limped to the bathroom. His leg was acting up again. He slammed the door rather loudly and locked it.

Sands rolled his eyes and closed them again. Mort wouldn't be escaping out any window. Sands had taken care of that when Mort had dozed off, however short it had been.

Mort turned on the faucet, and let the water run full blast as he turned to the window. He frowned at the screws and tried to unscrew them with his nails, cursing as he broke them and cut his cuticles. He sat down on the toilet lid with a huff and glared at the tiles of the shower.

"Given up already, have we?" Sands called softly.

Mort just harrumphed again, and finally stood up. He turned off the sink and went back to the bed with his back to Sands, sulking.

"I made a deal with you. I don't know why you're trying so hard to go back on your end," Sands murmured.

"Well, I don't see the benefit for me!" he said, glaring at the wall.

"Beyond the fact that you get to see another day of freedom? Shit," Sands shifted in the chair to ease the pressure on his cast. "Why do you think I'm up in this hell hole anyway? God's country my ass."

"I really wouldn't know as you haven't shared." Mort spat bitterly, making a face at the wall.

"No?" Sands tilted his head towards Mort and opened his eyes.

Mort lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder at Sands interest. "No. Are you gonna' spill now?" He rolled over to face Sands and sat up.

Sands felt his forehead, trying to figure out why he was so amicable and chalked it up to drugs. He wasn't a stranger to that sort of thing.

"Well, that depends. Are you going to go apeshit on me for telling you the truth?"

Mort thought about this for a moment and slowly shook his head. He could honestly say _he_ wouldn't freak...but he couldn't speak for that annoying southern drawl in his head.

"Well, when you killed those people, you didn't really run a background check on all of them."

Mort's eye twitched. "I didn't kill no one," he said firmly.

"When Shooter killed all those people then," Sands rolled his eyes. "Just the same, you killed Theodore Milner, a CIA operative working in Maine. When he never came back and word drifted in that he was dead and you killed him, they had to send someone out to get confirmation and bring you back. Guess who."

Mort's face paled. "Oh god, Ted? CIA? Wasn't he a bit on the prudish side?" He swallowed hard. "I didn't kill him...or Amy," he added softly. "Why was he here anyway? I mean what was his 'mission' or whatever?"

"Damned if I know. He was a prick. I hated his guts."

Mort's eyes narrowed, "Then why the hell are you here?"

"Because I am a pawn. A pissed off pawn, but a pawn none the less."

"So we're in the same boat there, no?" Mort asked with a scowl.

"You're no pawn. Don't you know chess? We're trying to capture you, fuckmook. You're the goddamn King," Sands sighed.

"Am I now..? Sorry, I don't play chess. So this gives me the power, I assume? Being a king does seem ultimately a better fate than being a pawn..." Mort mused. He scratched his head as he eyed the door and then Sands.

"Being King makes you the most wanted man on the board, and ultimately, the weakest. You move one space per turn while your minions try their damndest to protect you. The Queen is a fine defense. She can move any number of spaces in any direction. Shooter's your queen. Harrison..." Sands swallowed the syllables shortly. "...is a bishop, moving diagonally however many spaces he wants. The other...Lucifer, Devil's Spawn, whatever the hell you people called it...is the atom bomb."

Mort looked at him dumbfounded. "Wow...you really know your chess."

Sands snorted.

"There _is_ no atom bomb in chess."

Mort frowned. "Right. But...everything else...?" He thought he knew something about chess, but perhaps he'd been mistaken.

"Accurate enough, even the atom bomb bit. Mutual Assured Destruction is no laughing matter."

What the hell am I saying? Sands wondered.

_Just keep fucking talking. Keep him in the room._

Mort quirked an eyebrow. "So, when this Lucifer fellow comes out, you mutually destruct?"

"You ever hear of a thing called the Cold War? United States of America versus the big bad Soviet Union. The only thing that kept us from all out nuclear war was Mutual Assured Destruction. If we blow you up, you'll have enough time to send over a couple missiles and blow us up too. Nobody's stupid enough to sentence their country to death, are they? This guy certainly seemed willing to sacrifice me."

_Charming._

"I don't know what he does or how he operates. I didn't know he existed until he made an appearance."

_Sure you did._

"I've only seen what he can do. And if anybody could disprove MAD, he would. So don't dick around with him."

_I don't swing that way._

"Will you just shut the hell up," Sands snapped. His eyes were pointed fixedly at the ground and he looked pissed.

"I didn't say anything," Mort said quietly, a little shocked by his little spiel.

"Hm? No, not you," Sands shook his head. "Go to bed. You were the one complaining about being tired."

Mort scratched his head, and shrugged his shoulders painfully. It was too quiet for him, and Sands' talking to himself was bothering him. "Do you mind if I turn on the TV?" he asked while reaching for the remote.

"Only if it's on mute." Sands allowed his head to fall back and his eyes to drift shut.

Mort frowned. "Do you have any headphones? I don't particularly like hearing you talk to yourself." I deal enough with voices in my own head, he thought.

"Good luck with that, but I don't plan on talking much longer because I, unlike you, want to go to bed. Now quiet, savvy?"

Mort eyed him warily. "You don't talk in your sleep do you?" he asked.

"Doubt it," Sands murmured.

Mort sat for a moment silent. He chewed on his lip for lack of anything better to do, then looked over at Sands' drowsy form. "You wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes would you?" He looked hopeful.

"Christ, don't you ever fucking sleep?" Sands snapped. "I've got tobacco and rolling paper, no cigarettes."

Mort made a face, then sighed. It was better than nothing. "Can you show me how to make it?"

Sands sighed and glanced upward again.

"I show you how to roll a cigarette and you'll let me sleep uninterrupted until six tomorrow morning?"

Mort nodded eagerly scooting to the edge of the bed. Expectation coursed through his veins. He'd lacked the nicotine for so long now. "Can we get some cigarettes tomorrow though?" he asked.

"Sure, whatever." Sands took the supplies out of his pocket and began rolling with an ease born of endless practice. He held up the little brown cigarette in the dim light and smirked. "There."

Mort made a grab for it hungrily. Sands held it away from Mort's grasping fingers.

"Our deal?"

"Yes, yes! Alright, I'll let you sleep." He said making another grab for it, frowning as Sands still held it out of reach.

"No escaping," Sands said seriously. His voice sounded reasonable, the kind of reasonable that would cause someone to sell his soul to the devil.

"Fine! No escaping," he repeated without even thinking about it. All he could think about was the sweet relief of the nicotine running through his system. "Can I please have the cigarette?" His patience was running thin.

Sands flicked the cigarette at Mort and curled up in the arm chair. He was pretty sure Mort would comply. He still kept an ear out, but it wasn't as attuned as it had been minutes ago.

Mort nearly lost the cigarette in his haste. He looked to Sands for a light. "I seem to have lost all of my belongings..." he said.

Mort's voice had shaken Sands out of his half sleep. His peace shattered, he looked positively murderous.

"What the fuck do you think 'Leave me the hell alone' means? Find the fucking motel matches and _go away_," Sands glared.

Mort's eyes widened, and he recoiled. He began rifling through a drawer and found a book of matches with the motel's logo on it. It took him a few strikes till he finally got it lit. He inhaled the smoke sharply-coughing deep inside his chest-but continued to smoke the cigarette, relishing the feeling of the tobacco hitting his lungs. He leaned his head back against the headboard, studying Sands and wondering why he wouldn't lay in the other bed.

"You know there's another bed," he muttered.

"Fuck, you're not going to let me sleep are you? Goddamn you're a spiteful bastard. I'm not sleeping in the other bed because it's not going to make a hell of a lot of difference and I'll hear you just as loudly from over here, and because I still don't fucking trust you. It's easier to shoot you when I'm already sitting up than having to sit up then shoot."

"Why would you need to shoot me?" he asked, continuing the conversation, despite Sands' obvious annoyance. "I've already told you I'm not going to try to escape."

"And how many times have you told me this and _still_ tried to escape? Bull shit. I believe you might lull me into a sense of security, but I don't trust you much more than that."

"Fine, suit yourself. I could care less if you have a stiff back. You're not driving anyways," he mumbled. He finished the cigarette and turned over with his back to Sands.

"Go...to fucking...bed!"

"Fine!" Mort hissed, lifting his head to fluff his pillow before laying back down and letting out an agitated sigh.

He finally drifted off after listening to Sands' breathing for nearly an hour. It could be said to be a peaceful sleep as it was not filled with nightmares and such. He slept through the night and early the next morning, until he was quite rudely awaken.

"I didn't do it. No, I didn't do it. Go away. Get out of my head! _GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD_!" Sands howled in the grips of a powerful nightmare. The arm chair flew backwards, sending Sands tumbling out of it. The impact and jarring of his wounds was enough to startle him awake with a shout.

"Aaaaaah!" Mort sat bolt upright in bed, and looked around frantically, confused as to what had happened. He looked down at Sands sitting on the floor, looking somewhat bewildered, and couldn't help himself. He opened his mouth wide and began to laugh hysterically.

Sands was torn between being extremely pissed off and totally stunned. Even now the dream was fading and he wasn't sure what had woken him up. All he knew was that it wasn't yet 6, and he felt shafted. His heart rate was dropping to a normal level and he still felt like shit.

Mort's laughter slowly died off, and he looked at Sands somewhat worriedly. "Are you ok? You're looking a little pale there," he mumbled.

_Don't say it. Don't you dare say it..._

"I don't know. I haven't known since I came up here."

Mort swallowed. That wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. He knew better than to suggest a doctor-they'd already been that route. "What-what's wrong with you?" He asked, not wanting to hear, but needing to know what was going on exactly.

"If I knew, don't you think I'd have better control over it?" Sands remarked wryly.

Mort shrugged his shoulders. "Some people choose to ignore it." That sounded oddly familiar to his ears, but he pushed that thought aside. It was just a musing.

"And you see how well it's been doing both of us."

Mort got defensive. "Hey, we're not talking about me! I'm not the one that woke up screaming at some unknown voice in my head to, and I quote 'Get the fuck out of my head.' " Mort said looking at him pointedly.

"Perhaps not, but I wasn't the one trying to stab twelve airport security guards with a pen."

"Well neither was...I..." He trailed off, trying to remember when he was at the airport. He knew he'd been there, remembered arguing about where he was going to fly to. He frowned. He was still wearing the clothes from there, the t-shirt with Bangor International written on the front.

"Well done," Sands rolled his eyes.

"What? What did I do?" His brow puckered.

"You're unobservant, a pain in the ass and a malodorous pervert."

Mort glared at him. "Oh just shut up will you?" He scowled and laid his head back on the pillow, his eyes tracing the lines on the ceiling.

Sands shrugged and contemplated how much he really wanted to get up. The meds he was taking were officially gone and there was a full ache working up his body.

"Always look on the bright side of life," he hummed quietly.

Mort fixed yet another glare on him. It was his turn to complain about going to sleep. "I'm trying to get a couple more hours of sleep here as I won't be able to snooze in the car."

It was the wrong thing to say. "Oh fuck you, Mort! Roll me a fucking cigarette. Talk to me! Tell me the meaning of fucking life!"

"Fuck you! I'm the one driving you around! If you don't like it, you can get another chauffer!" he huffed.

"If I remember correctly, you were the one who was suddenly stricken with fatigue and insisted we pull over. Are you telling me we could have driven another hour, hour and a half last night? I don't know if you understand that the hounds of hell are nipping at our heels to take us into custody."

"No. I'm saying I didn't get enough sleep due to your unnecessary outburst."

"Then why the fuck didn't you go to bed when I fucking told you?" Sands hissed. He felt his anger beginning to jerk against his tight reign of control. It was the stirrings of whatever he'd felt the day before, when he woke up from one nightmare to be hurled directly into another. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out who died from his loss of control this time.

"I did!" Mort said indignantly. "I was sleeping," he murmured.

"No, you fucking insisted on escaping twice, watching TV and having a cigarette. In that fucking order!"

"I did?" Mort was dumbfounded. He hadn't thought about that. "Oh..."

"Why don't you think about that next time you bitch at me, John Wayne," Sands snarled.

"But you said we could sleep until 6 o' clock!" Mort protested crossing his arms over his chest defiantly.

"You voided that promise when you wouldn't let me sleep! Get your fucking things. We're leaving. We're going to Manchester Airport and catching a flight out of this hell hole. You can sleep on the fucking plane."

Mort seemed satisfied with this, and he hurriedly grabbed what few belongings he had. He followed Sands out of the room and into the car only to question him. "Where are we going?"

Sands stopped himself from gnashing his teeth. The anger was settling like a ball of lead in his belly and it wasn't dissipating like it normally did. Normal people retained water, Sands retained anger.

"Man. Chest. Er. Air. Port," he ground out.

Mort rolled his eyes with a sigh, but saw Sands' difficult restraint and kept his mouth shut. He guided the vehicle out into the early morning darkness, towards the highway heading into Manchester.

XXX

Sands eyed the milling people warily. He feared he was losing his mind in the worst way. Every time some fuckmook bumped him or his crutch-thereby shooting pain through his extremities-he felt his chest tighten a little more. Being driven insane from pain wasn't on his list of fun for the day. Another hurrying patron shoved by Sands, causing his muscles to contract to prevent him from yelling in frustration.

Mort wasn't any happier being in the bustle of the busy airport. He glanced at Sands, and saw his jaw clenched so tightly, it looked as if it might crack. "You ok?" he asked hesitantly.

"Fuck no," Sands whispered. He shook his head and limped up to a ticket counter, scanning the destination. Denver, CO. He turned to Mort. "Denver okay with you?"

Mort shrugged. "I suppose it's as good a place as any. Never been there other than vacation, but then again, that's sort of what this is like, right?"

"Ah...sure," Sands muttered. Before much longer the transaction was complete and they had two tickets out of New Hampshire in approximately 15 minutes. It was almost too easy. That's when Sands' cell rang. The Caller ID read "Tommy Boy." He idly wondered if Tom knew about his girlfriend yet.

"In the land of the living, Tommy Boy?"

"Where the hell are you?" Tom croaked, his voice hoarse and weak. He'd only been conscious for a little over half an hour, and he'd insisted upon a phone to call Sands. He didn't blame him really...well...maybe he did, but he was his _friend_.

"Having breakfast at the North Pole. Candy canes, chocolate Santas and omelets. Sure, it's a little macabre, but it does the trick." Sands massaged his forehead as he spoke.

Tom frowned. "What?" He hissed as a nurse changed his dressing on his arm. "Are you...feeling better?" He asked warily.

"Well, I can't walk, people keep bumping into me, the Mexican's disagreeing with me, I didn't sleep, I think I'm going to freak right out, and I've got a hell of a headache. You tell me." He checked his watch. The plane wasn't boarding yet, but he knew he didn't have much longer.

Tom frowned. He could hear background noises that sounded vaguely like an airport. "You're dancing around my questions Sands. Do I need to be blunt in the asking?"

"Well, I haven't got a hell of a lot longer to play with you, so why don't you get right to the point?"

"What? Why?" Tom frowned. "Where the hell are you?" he ground out.

"I'm leaving, Tommy Boy. I want to be as far away from you as quickly as I can. You're no doubt feeling a bit miffed at me."

Tom sighed. "Sands, I understand you weren't in your right mind." He wearily rubbing his eyes. He hurt like hell, but he didn't exactly blame Sands for the person or personality in his head that had gone berzerk and shot him.

"Tom? What have they got you on that you don't care that I killed your bitch?" Sands frowned. The announcement went out that the plane would board shortly.

Tom frowned, not understanding what Sands was talking about. Something clicked in his brain, but he was so doped up he couldn't decipher exactly what. "What are you talking about Sands?" He asked warily. "_Who_ did you kill?"

_He doesn't know? Well, if that wasn't a good omen, I just don't know what is..._

"No one. No one of consequence anyway. Listen, Tom, I'm gonzo in a minute so, lovely as it's been talking to you, I really must be going. Maybe I'll see you someday...in an...alternate dimension. But until then, ta!" Sands said brightly and ended the call.

Tom's brow furrowed. "Wait-Sands! What are you talking about?" His head was beginning to hurt from wracking it to figure out what the hell Sands was talking about.

"Wasn't interested in talking, was he?" Merrie murmured. She hadn't broken the news to him about Sara yet.

Tom rubbed his forehead wearily as he looked up at Merrie. "Yes he was, but was fucking cryptic." He mumbled.

"What'd he say?"

He frowned pondering what Sands had said. "He said...'I killed your bitch.' " He turned to Merrie with a puzzled expression on his pale, gaunt face. "What do you suppose he meant by that? Is it some sort of code?" He sighed, utterly confused. Merrie groaned. Unlike Tom, she knew exactly what Sands had meant.

"Tom...I think he meant you to take it literally."

Tom looked up at her frowning. "What? Why?" He looked into her eyes, trying to understand _her_ cryptic message. He sighed again. "Will _someone_ please speak in plain English and tell me what the hell is going on?" he shouted out, wincing at the pain that shot through his gut.

"Tom...SandskilledSara," Merrie mumbled.

"_What_?" Tom hissed, certain he'd misheard her. "He fucking did _what_?" He reached up and grabbed her by the collar with his uninjured arm and pulled her face inches from his. "Come again?" He growled with a mixture of the drugs and the rage that gripped him.

"Tom, let me go or I will tell you nothing," Merrie winced.

Tom breathed through his nose quickly and deeply, his lips parting as he began to breathe through his mouth, seething. He shoved Merrie away, and then spat at her, "Talk."

She rubbed her neck, trying to regulate her breathing.

"Sands killed Sara. I-I saw him."

Tom's eyebrows furrowed, with disbelief. "You saw him? How…what…? I don't believe you! You're lying!" he shouted, "You're a fucking liar! I want someone in here who will tell the truth! Doctor! Doctor!" He yelled looking out into the hallway.

House poked his head in, sans a sunny disposition. Merrie shook her head, mentally pleading with him to leave, but House either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Anything I can help you with, my liege?"

"She's lying!" Tom said with a grimace. "She said that Sands fucking killed Sarah!"

"Sara?" House cocked his head.

"The EMT," Merrie whispered.

"Oh. Yeah, funny thing that. Merrie's right," he shrugged.

"_What_?" Tom roared, attempting to get up out of the bed. An orderly rushed into the room to try to calm him. "Get the fuck away from me!" He hollered, throwing the man away, making to get up again. His eyes shot daggers at House. "It's your fault! You're not a fucking shrink! You didn't fix him!"

The orderly looked pleadingly at the doctors for guidance. Merrie was too shaken up. House took initiative and prepped an injection. He stuck Tom in the arm with a firm authority and watched as Tom became woozy.

"No, I'm not a shrink. Thanks for finally noticing. Now, as a medical doctor, I suggest you sleep a bit, get your mind back together. For your physical and mental strength," House said quietly.

"She's really dead?" Tom murmured groggily as the sedative began to take effect. His gentle blue eyes that had moments before been filled with rage, were pleading. Begging House to say it wasn't true. His lids felt heavy, and he fought it waiting for House's answer.

"I'm sorry." For once, House actually looked uncomfortably apologetic. Merrie left the room, needing air. House sighed. If he wasn't so sure he was going to leave this hospital within the week, he'd be tempted to make amends.

"Right..." Tom muttered bitterly his eyes slipping shut a final time as he entered unconsciousness.

XXX

Mort yawned and stretched his legs, awakening as the plane was coming in for a landing. He looked over to where Sands was with his sunglasses covering his eyes. He wondered if he was sleeping or not. He stuck his finger out and tapped him three times on the shoulder.

Sands snorted.

"Eh? Hmph? What the fuck?"

Mort recoiled, his arm sticking out in the aisle. He jerked his arm close as someone knocked it when they returned to their seats after taking a leak. Mort winced and rubbed his elbow. "I wasn't sure if you were awake," he muttered, "We're getting ready to land."

"Are we?" he asked curiously. He glanced out the window to take a gander at the graceful snow topped peaks of the Rockies and what looked to be the outer fringes of Denver. "Well I'll be damned. We should go skiing."

"How?" Mort asked, looking at him like he'd lost his mind. In many cases, he had.

Sands smiled lazily. "I was being facetious."

"Oh...right. Of course." Mort said, looking over Sands and out the window at the snow. He sighed. He really wasn't fond of the stuff all that much. It was much more of a hassle than it was worth.

"All right, John Wayne. If you had one day to do whatever you wanted in Denver, what would you do?" Sands asked idly.

Mort stared out the window, his lips curling in disgust at the snow. "I dunno," he mumbled.

"Well, we're here. All that's left is to make the best of it, wouldn't you say?"

"Sure, sure..." Mort agreed, nodding his head while still leaning over Sands and watching as they came down in Denver. "Why did we come to _Denver_ exactly?" he asked quietly, hoping he didn't upset the man. He was easily irritable.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Sands shrugged. "I'd still rather like a drink before hopping the next plane to Canada or some place like that."

Mort frowned. "We're fleeing the country? Won't that get me and you in more trouble?"

"We're already in trouble. It's a bit late for that. I don't really want to leave the country though. Bit too cowardly for my tastes."

"Cowardly?" Mort asked loudly. "What about running period? You're not fessing up and facing the consequences for your actions!" He crossed his arms. "If that's not cowardly enough for you, I'd like to know what you consider cowardly," he said, staring Sands down as the plane taxied toward the gate.

"I'd say it was a wee bit hypocritical of you, John Wayne, but I know you'd get all self righteous on me again. Let's suffice it to say we're probably not leaving the country."

Mort felt a bit relieved at that-not much-but a little. He sighed, leaning back in his seat until the overhead light went off and he could release his safety belt. He peered down the aisle as he stood up, looking at all the odd travelers. Sands and he didn't really look all that odd compared to some of them.

Sands had his eye on one particular passenger. She was dark and rather-read very-attractive and Sands had a hard time averting his gaze. The sunglasses helped his cause, but he was still startled when Mort hung on his shoulder.

"Did you hear me?" he asked annoyed.

"What?" Sands yelped.

"Jeez," Mort mumbled. "I had my chance and I blew it. I was asking if you wanted me to get your crutch out from overhead."

"Wha-sure, yeah, why the fuck not," Sands shook himself to alertness. He forced himself not to notice until the girl pushed by, causing the hairs on his arm to stand on end, among other things. He drew his hand back, trying to ignore the pain.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" she asked. Her voice was dark and sensuous. He felt himself begin to drown in it.

"No, I just wrapped my hand in a cast for shits and giggles. Perfectly alright," Sands remarked.

Mort's eyebrow rose as he looked between the two. He pulled down the crutch, not paying attention to where it was going, smacking it right into the woman's head. Mort's face paled. "I-oh god-I'm sorry!" He stuttered, looking to Sands for help.

She looked angry, murderous even. Sands shot a glare at Mort before offering his uninjured hand to her. "Now we're even. Mort, careful, with that, alright?" He gestured for the crutch trying not to topple over in the process.

Mort swallowed at the look the woman gave him. He handed the crutch over to Sands, watching the woman warily.

"Coming my way, I take it?" she asked dryly.

"Why not? Better in Denver together than Denver alone."

"What, you're not banging the blond over there?" she frowned. Sands nearly choked. Mort's eye twitched and he made to crack his jaw. Sands held him back with a hand on his shoulder. He turned to the sultry woman with a face chiseled from self restraint.

"I've banged him in the sense of shooting him. Twice in fact. But can you honestly see it working between us?"

Mort's jaw clenched. He really wanted to slap that woman. She was a first class bitch, a player.

_Liken the missus._

Mort's eyes narrowed. Indeed, she was much like Amy, in that sense. He didn't see what Sands found so intriguing about her.

"Perhaps not," she smiled. "I take it you aren't from around here."

"Good guess," Sands muttered as he maneuvered into the terminal. He hadn't liked the accusation about sleeping with his enemy, but she was too damn gorgeous to entirely ignore. "Listen, you want a drink? Denver's not exactly the most entertaining of towns."

"A free drink from a charming man. Where have I heard that before?" she asked sweetly.

"Well, shit, you don't have to. I thought I'd offer."

Mort scowled, as he followed behind them. He'd been strung along on one too many dates already for his liking, and the last had ended up dead, as it were. He thought that perhaps he should mention this fact, avoid the probable event of reoccurrence. "You know the last date I tagged along on, you ended up strangling the girl," he said oh-so-casually.

Sands barely noticed Mort. The lump of emotion in his belly was evolving into something a bit more heated.

_Goddamn, that's not good..._

"Strangled?" the woman recoiled.

"Smothered with love, you know how it goes," Sands shrugged as though it were an everyday occurrence.

_No, you fuckmook! You stay away from that bitch!_ the voice screamed. Sands smiled pleasantly, able to focus on a more enjoyable feeling than the pent up anger ranting at him.

"I don't believe I do," she cocked an eyebrow.

Mort rolled his eyes and leaned toward the woman. "I was told it was with his IV tubes." He made a face, causing the veins on his neck to stand out. "Then when she got feisty..." He made a ripping type sound and pulled his hand across his neck in the ancient 'off with your head' gesture. " He snapped her neck."

"Don't you think I would have remembered doing something like that?" Sands rolled his eyes.

_You fucking idiot! You DID kill her! Who the fuck are you?_

"You could be lying," she pointed out.

"I could be, but...I like to think I'm a wee bit saner than that, sugarbutt."

"Sugarbutt?"

"What, you don't like it? Do I have to talk in a Spanish accent to get your attention or can I just stick with my pet names?"

"A gringo with a Spanish accent?"

"Pues, por qué no, señorita? Puedo hablar espanol. Si lo te gusta, puedo continuar. Si no... puedo terminar."

_NO! FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU! _Loosely translated, Sands' Spanish had meant, "Well, why not? I can speak Spanish. If you don't like it, I can continue. If not...I can stop." The voice wasn't thrilled.

Mort gave him a "What the fuck?" look and shook his mop of hair. "I'm outta here." He mumbled, grabbing the novel Sands had allowed him to get at the airport in Manchester, and heading down the aisle of the plane following the horde of other passengers.

_Get the fuck after your prey! NOW! Find him!_

Sands frowned and made to brush the voice away like a fly.

Mort exited the plane, and looked back expecting Sands to come storming after him. He frowned when he didn't see him at all. He pursed his lips and waited impatiently, working at his lower lip.

After a couple minutes, it was evident Sands wasn't going to come after him. Mort sighed, not knowing exactly what to do. His stomach rumbled, so he made his way out of the gate area and towards the food court. He got a Big Mac and sat down at a table in the open, as opposed to sitting amongst the travelers or taking it to go. He pondered Sands' reaction to the woman as he picked at the burger.

Even as Mort was thinking about Sands, he was already leading his lady friend towards the food court for a drink and a bite.

"What's your name? Or...well, como se llama?"

She laughed, "Ajedrez."

"Huh. Well, that's very interesting. Chess. You wouldn't be the manipulative type, would you?"

"Only in bed," she said airily.

"I see..."

The nameless voice screamed in rage and forced Sands to walk to Mort. Sands, to his credit, carefully showed no emotion. He took it in stride and straddled a chair opposite Mort, swinging another out for Ajedrez.

Mort frowned as Sands and the woman approached. It deepened as she sat down next to him. He glared at her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He slowly took a bite of his burger and chewed very slowly, watching the way Sands gazed at her. He almost choked.

Any normal man would have said he'd been struck by Cupid's undiscriminating arrow. In truth, House would have said Sands' libido was beginning to manifest as well.

"So what's your name?" Ajedrez asked slyly.

"Don Juan," Sands smirked.

"Charming," she rolled her eyes.

Mort was seriously getting sick. It was not like Sands to play lover-boy. "It's fuckmook," he said bluntly, glaring first at Ajedrez and then Sands.

"Okay, you call me silly names like that and you're just showing off your ignorance. Kindly zip it, all right?"

_Zip it? What the fuck-..._

"Listen, girly, I'm not in the mood for this shit. Sands here's out of his head and one of the people in here is hell bent on wooing you. Don't encourage him, or you'll die, bitch," the nameless one snapped.

"And you think a tough guy attitude will get me to like you even faster?" Ajederez asked incredulously.

Mort recognized the voice and turned to Sands. "You're too late. He's already hooked." He hoped to antagonize the voice.

"You're shitting me," the voice retorted. He smacked his forehead with the butt of his hand and crossed his eyes. "Listen you little wanker, you'd better not be showing your fucking self around here for a good long while, you pussy! I'll fucking castrate you."

Mort snickered at the looks Sands' display was getting. His eyes grew wide when he made mention of castration. That was just wrong! Mort turned to Ajedrez cheerfully. "So, what do you think of Mr. Fuckmook over there?" He pointed his thumb in Sands' direction as he continued his outburst.

Ajedrez made to say something, but closed her mouth. She looked rather perplexed.

"He's not exactly mentally stable, is he?"

Mort snorted, taking a sip out of the bottle of Mountain Dew he had. "Not exactly."

"Does he...do that often?"

Mort nodded seriously. "Oh yes. Every day. Argues with himself and threatens to castrate himself at least once every few hours." He leaned closer to her and whispered loudly, "I'd be surprised if they're still intact."

"Well, I'd say it's a very good thing I'm not interested in him in that way, isn't it?" she replied.

"Good! Stay that way, bitch! You're bad fucking news!" the voice snarled.

"Now whatever happened to that charming man I bumped into on the plane?"

"I fucking buried him. What the hell are you still doing here?"

"He owes me a drink."

"Goddamn it, what does it look like I am? A fucking open bar? Fuck you!"

Mort chuckled. "I think that's what she wants you to do," he said conspiratorially to the persona that occupied Sands' mind.

"Wha-? No! Sure, I can understand once in awhile, but not fucking now! We're on the fucking run!"

"Run? From whom?"

"What gives you the right to fucking interrogate me?"

"Just curious," she shrugged. "And I'm betting your name's not Don Juan, either."

"No, it's not. I don't have a name," he sneered.

Mort sighed wearily. "I already _told_ you. He killed his best friend's girlfriend."

"I did not, that was fucking Sands," he snorted.

"So I'm sitting in the presence of a cold blooded killer. Should I be afraid?"

"Oh yeah, very afraid."

Mort nodded looking at her seriously. "He tried to kill his best friend too. Shot him twice, once in the gut and once in the arm. He shot me twice too." He pointed to his wounds almost with pride, as if they were from a war. "And he stabbed a rookie agent."

"Nah, actually, that was me," the voice snickered. He seemed happy to reminisce about such gruesome thoughts.

"Well, technically you're in the same body, so he gets blamed as well, thus the reason we're running." Mort said with a cocky tilt to his head.

"Fuck him. He's little bitch, anyway. I just know I'm not ready to tie ourselves down to some tart named after a stupid board game. We're still running, as you still graciously pointed out." The voice had no trouble ignoring Ajedrez.

"Well then, let's continue running, hm?" Mort asked, pushing away his barely touched burger. He was glad to have Sands-or whoever the hell it was that occupied his mind-to himself.

"What about my drink, buddy?" Ajedrez scowled.

"I sure as hell didn't promise you a drink. Did you...whatever your name is?" Nameless turned to Mort.

Mort's lip curled in disgust. "No. Buying her a drink would make me feel icky," he said with a shudder.

"Good, we're agreed," the voice grinned. The smile turned quickly to a look of disgust.

"We're most definitely are _not_ agreed. I like her. She's pretty and she's witty and I wanted to buy her a drink," he said petulantly.

"No! Fuck you, you're not calling the shots!"

"Neither are you, sir! You are nothing more than an obstinate, duplicitous fiend!"

Mort frowned. "Crawl back in your hole for a bit longer, we were almost gone." He spoke to Sands' new alter ego.

"No! I like her! Sugarbutt, I'm sorry you had to see this, but...I'm not exactly the same person all the time and not everybody entirely cooperates when it's very convenient. I'll buy you that drink, but you might have to wait awhile," the new voice said apologetically.

"Over my dead body!" the other hissed.

"If need be," the lover snapped. Ajedrez was momentarily speechless. She'd seen men fight over her all the time, but never the same man...

"You're going to find it awful hard to make good on your offer if your body's dead," she murmured.

"He's already tried that, or one of them did," Mort muttered, rolling his eyes. "Can we go? This little get-together is all really fascinating, but I'd really like to hit the slopes."

"With all due respect, I heard you do nothing but complain about the snow since we started flying over the Rockies. We will not be skiing, and what's more, you won't be missing it. I'm sorry, Sugarbutt, they don't seem to appreciate love when they see it," he sneered.

"They. You're really hung up on this crazy thing, aren't you?" she asked.

"I'm afraid it's all I've got. I don't think I'd exist if it weren't for the...craziness," he wrinkled his nose.

"So your name is Don Juan? Or Sands?"

He laughed, "Neither. They're mere nom de plumes. However, I could go by Armande, if you so choose."

"You speak French too, do you?"

"I've learned a few languages along the way."

She raised an eyebrow in question. "Where is 'along the way'?"

Mort rolled his eyes, and stood up. "Enjoy your drinks." He grabbed his bottle of Mountain Dew and looked around the busy airport. He took a step towards the baggage claim and the exit of the airport.

Armande didn't notice, but the other did. No matter how he struggled, Armande simply held control even tighter. He smiled lazily at Ajedrez and rolled his eyes in response to Mort's exit.

"I say along the way as in a couple of trips to other countries, some bad classes in school...you know."

She raised an eyebrow quizzically, but nodded. "Riiiggght. Are you sure you're gonna buy me a drink, because if not, I've got better places to be." She began tapping her fingernails on the table impatiently. While the man was certainly attractive, he was most definitely psycho too. A lethal combination. She found herself smirking at the thoughts of the many ways she could play him.

"You look like you'd rather do a bit more than get a drink," Armande observed.

"Are you game?" she asked with a wicked smile.

"Well, why not? I haven't got anything better to do," he smiled charmingly.

"Where did you have in mind? Certainly not here in the airport." She looked at him haughtily.

"Well...if you were game, I would certainly try, but yes, I was thinking some place a bit more private," he smirked.

"Are you just full of talk or were you really planning on that?" She eyed him, her lips curling slightly.

He stood up and offered an arm. "Well? Come on then."

She cocked an eyebrow as she stood, staring at his arm. She pursed her lips and moved forward towards the baggage claim without grabbing the proffered limb. She looked over her shoulder to see him staring after her as if stunned and she smirked. "Well? Are you coming?" she called out, her hips swaying slightly as she walked.

Armande snorted and followed her. He hadn't _really_ been thinking about taking it further, but he sure wasn't going to complain. This Ajedrez was _very_ charming.

"I hope you've got a place in mind if you plan on leading the way," he commented offhandedly.

Ajedrez broke into the gray Denver afternoon, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a stream of fog. She looked behind her, and sure enough, 'Armande' was following. She reached in her purse and pulled out a cigarette, lighting up and taking a drag. She noticed the man with the dirty mop for hair watching her smoke. She turned to him, and blew the smoke in his direction. "See something that interests you?" she smirked.

Mort nodded, licking his lips as he watched her work on the cigarette. "Can I bum one?" he asked, inching a bit closer.

She looked taken aback, thinking he'd been watching her. Her lip curled in disgust, and she dug out a cigarette and tossed it to the ground, watching as Mort dove for it. She chuckled, shaking her head, smoking her cigarette, and turning to see 'Armande' exit the airport with an aura of superiority around him.

Armande glanced distastefully at Mort who'd scrabbled for the cigarette like an emaciated dog on a scrap of meat. He cocked an eyebrow at Ajedrez who seemed to enjoy the display. "You're a smoker too, hm?"

"No I just enjoy chewing on the damn thing." She rolled her eyes and blew the smoke in his face, giving him her best sultry look.

Mort looked up from the ground eagerly. "Can I have a light?" he asked.

Armande inhaled the sweet scent slowly, wondering if he wanted a cigarette himself. The whole yellow teeth and bad breath thing didn't appeal to him that much. But a cigarette filter had possibilities.

"Can we hit a smoke shop before we head to wherever we're going? I'm low on tobacco. And I want to get something special."

Mort's ear perked at that. Perhaps he would stay with Sands. For now.

Ajedrez sighed, and tossed the butt to the ground grinding it out with her 4 inch stiletto. "Sure, why the hell not?" she said. She stepped to the curb and letting loose an ear-piercing whistle to hail a cab.

Mort pouted, still having not gotten the light he'd asked for. He turned to Sands or 'Armande' or whoever the fuck he was. "Can I have a light?"

"Try rubbing two sticks together if you must." Armande rolled his eyes as he climbed into the back of the taxi with Ajedrez. "But we're suffering together if I can't get tobacco."

Mort quickly slipped into the front of the cab much to the other two passengers' annoyance. He was getting his cigarettes and a lighter one way or the other.

It didn't take long for the cab to pull up in front of an inconspicuous place called The Sophisticated Smoker. It was chock full of all kinds of bizarre items, like jackets, authentic pipes and the like. Armande even spotted something that looked suspiciously like a bong. He didn't linger, he jumped to the cigarette filters. They practically screamed good taste. He bought a moderately priced one, a pouch of tobacco and a few books of matches before seeking Mort and Ajedrez.

Ajedrez was looking at the buff clerk's tattoos with much interest. She was leaning over the counter-providing him with a nice view down her shirt-while her fingers grazed a tattoo of a heart with a knife through it on his forearm.

Mort was over by the cigarette display, his arms loaded with at least half a dozen cartons of Pall Malls.

Armande leaned casually against the counter, a lazy look on his face. His gaze was trained on the freely flirting Ajedrez.

"Is he your ideal man? Should I feel threatened?"

"Possibly." She leered at Armande while giving the clerk a conspiratorial wink.

"Should I kill him to preserve my masculine pride and whisk you away from this foul place?" he asked reasonably.

"If you find it necessary..." She said trailing off, wondering just how serious he was.

"I can. It'd save me a bit of money," he shrugged. "It's not as if I'm not already wanted in another state."

She gave him a doubtful look. "I don't think you'd do it. But I do think that...nameless one…would," she replied with a spark in her eye.

"And if you put us all in the same head, we're all the same person. Sands certainly would, if Harrison wasn't being a particularly loud conscience that day. I'm merely a part of Sands. His...libido...if you will," Armande winked. "Better choose fast before he rings my stuff up."

Ajedrez shrugged, and stepped back from the counter. "Let's see what you've got." She gestured to the clerk whose eyes were darting frantically between the two, and then over to Mort who was biting his lip trying to decide exactly how many cartons he could afford.

Armande, to his credit, wasn't normally the up and kill type. But if it were required of him, he wouldn't think twice. If Ajedrez wanted him to end this luckless clerk's life, he surely would. He whipped out the gun someone-possibly Sands or the anonymous one-had tucked securely into his pants, and he aimed it squarely at the cowering man's head. He removed the safety and cocked the gun.

"Sorry, sir, but today's just not your day."

Ajedrez's smile spread across her face, and she moved up behind Armande, and pressed her body against his back. "Shoot the fucking monkey," she whispered where he could feel her breath and lips hot on his ear. 

Mort glanced up as he heard the unmistakable sound of the safety releasing. Seeing Sands aiming his gun at the clerk, he began grabbing as many of the cartons of Pall Malls as he could.

Armande had to fight not to be too distracted by Ajedrez's rubbing against his shoulder. He gave a last smile before pulling the trigger and watching the clerk drop like a stone.

"That work, sugarbutt?" he murmured.

"That-was...exhilarating..." Her tongue snaked into his ear. She promptly pulled away, watching as Armande struggled for his composure.

"Fun as that was, we must make haste. Before all of Colorado's on our backs," he sighed and pocketed his now free items. "Are you ready, Morton?"

Mort made his way over with a stack of 14 cartons of Pall Malls and a bag of at least 20 lighters. "Yes." The reply was muffled as he had the cartons wedged under his chin.

Ajedrez watched Mort walk out of the store. "He's coming with us?" she asked with a pout.

"You would not believe the hell any of them will raise if he disappears, forgive my French. I'd rather not give them any reason to kill you, if you understand. Besides, those cigarettes will keep him occupied for hours. Trust me on this," he whispered into her neck to get a rise out of her.

She smiled as his lips brushed her neck, and she pushed him away playfully. "Fine. As long as he leaves us alone. Now then...our drinks?"

"Right, right...drinks. I'm afraid I'm not entirely familiar with Denver. I'd be more than happy to pay; I just don't believe I know a proper place where drinks can be procured."

She shook her head and mumbled a few choice words in Spanish. "There's a place about a mile and half from here. That is, if being in such close proximity to the scene," she gestured with a smirk, "Doesn't bother you too much."

"No witnesses, I'd say I was alright with it," he smiled pleasantly.

She gave a nod, and turned on her heel and left the store without a thing. There was nothing she needed. If she wanted something, she had more than enough cash to get it, and there was nothing there that would give her the thrill she desired. Well...nothing from that shop. She eyed Armande out of the corner of her eyes.

Armande made a sharp gesture to Mort that said, "Come on," and followed Ajedrez onto the street.

**Honour Roll: Merrie: **Yeah, we brought House back! Again! Indeed, let's lay back and watch the murders and madness ensue. **depplove: **Sequel? You mean…after this one? Who said anything about this one ending? **Enesvy: **You lucky werewolf you. Tell Lupin hello for us, would you? **BraveSymbol: **I could reply to all those reviews, but I'd have conniptions and pass out from laughter before I could finish. Here's another chapter to help you through another wintery day.


	13. The One that Got Away

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The world is falling down around Sheldon Jeffrey Sands and Morton Rainey. What's the next step towards a grander plan?

**Disclaimer**: No, the lady Ajedrez isn't ours. Armande might be, but I've lost track of all those people.

**Author's Notes: **More Ajedrez fun, but instead of Armande hoarding him all to himself, we got more people running around. How cool is that? A little bit of…lovemaking…towards the middle, but we don't go into that much detail, promise. However, the warning's out, try not to flame us too badly. Honour Roll at the end.

**The One that Got Away**

Mort sighed in relief when they finally left the bar. He'd had to suffer through nearly 3 hours of Armande making lame passes at the Hispanic woman. Mort had to admit that she was beautiful and quite attractive, but he could smell trouble. He didn't like her, not one bit. He'd situated himself in the corner of the bar in a booth with his cigarettes, and he'd had a few shots of Jack Daniels. If he wasn't concentrating on smoking a cigarette, on sipping his Jack Daniels, he'd zoom in on Armande and Ajedrez chatting at the far end of the bar.

She was good, leading Armande on. She continuously shifted on her stool, offering him peeks down her blouse. She took slow sips of her drink, licking her lips sensuously afterwards. She played him, drawing him in until he was wrapped tightly around her little finger.

Finally, they stood and started for the door slowly. Mort wasn't sure which had called it quits, but he was grateful. He grabbed his cigarettes and scurried after them, getting more than a few curious glances. He followed them through the door and nearly ran smack into the back of them as they were huddling under the awning of the bar. It had begun to rain.

"Are we going to a hotel now?" Mort asked eagerly, looking forward to a nice hot shower and a bed. Traveling over the past two days had worn on him.

"I dunno, I kinda like the rain," Armande slurred around his rakish cigarette filter. He felt positively debonair. All he needed was a fedora and he'd be ready to sweep his damsel off into the sunset. Maybe it was the tequila. He wasn't sure. "¿Qué piensas, chica¿Buscaríamos un hotel?" _What do you think? Should we look for a hotel?_

"Ya tengo un cuarto, mi animalito ansioso. Un cuarto para dos," she said looking at Mort pointedly._ I already have a room my anxious little pet. A room for two._

"¿Obtendremos un cuarto para el?" he asked slowly. _Shall we get a room for him?_

"Es solamente grande bastante para dos, así toma su elección: tú o él." _It's only big enough for two, so take your pick-you or him._ She spotted a cab and rushed for it, flinging open the door and sliding in out of the rain. She wanted to toy with him a bit first.

"¿Qué es esto? Dije un cuarto para él; ¡no es mio!" he yelled, jogging to catch up with her. _What's this? I said a room for him; it's not mine!_ He grabbed her upper arm before she was completely inside, not caring if the rain soaked him or both of them. The expression on his face was of hidden desperation and mingled understanding. "Pero, si quieres que yo comparta un cuarto con el, lo haré. Ojalá que no quieras esto," he said solemnly. _But if you want me to share a room with him, I will. I hope that you don't want that._

"Ven aca, estás haciendome mojado." _Get in, you're getting me wet._ She smirked at him, sliding further into the cab. Mort helped himself to the front seat, not knowing any Spanish to know what they were conversing about.

"Pues...Creo que ésa es una buena cosa." Armande grinned slyly and closed the door behind him. _Well...I believe that that is a good thing._

"¿Pensarías así, no?" _You would think so, wouldn't you?_ She chuckled at his eagerness.

"No tienes una idea qué ésto significa a mi." _You have no idea what this means to me._

She leaned back against the seat and crossed her legs. "Digame..." _Do tell..._ Her lips curled into a smile as she caught him watching as more leg was revealed beneath her skirt.

"El mundo. Al principio...yo...no era..." _The world. In the beginning…I...wasn't..._

She smirked again. "No debes joder en una tiempa larga." _You must not have had sex in a long time._ She gave him a knowing look, shifting so that her skirt hiked up a bit more. "¿No eras lo qué?" _You weren't what?_ She purred, leaning towards him.

"No sé," he frowned. "No hablo con Sands mucho. Y éso es, simplemente. Yo no era." _I don't know. I don't talk with Sands much. And that's it, simply. I wasn't._

Her brow furrowed and before she could say anything, they arrived at her hotel. It was, of course, the nicest in the city. She got out and turned to Armande. "¿Estás seguro que puedes proporcionar esto para él?" _Are you certain you can afford this for him?_

Mort got out and looked up at the bright hotel with his mouth hanging open. He let out a low whistle. "I'll be damned...This has got to be one of the nicest pimp houses I've seen," he muttered.

Ajedrez shot him a glare. "Su amigo va a doler," she told Armande._ Your friend is going to get hurt._

"No es mi amigo y si, puedo pagar por el," Armande rolled his eyes. _He's not my friend and yes I can pay for him._ He looked to Mort and gestured at the hotel. "Come on Mort, let's get you checked in."

Ajedrez strolled ahead and checked in, going to wait by the elevators. There was a bank of phones beside them. She glanced over at Armande checking Mort in, and then picked one and began a hurried conversation in her native language.

"You're gonna be fine in your own room, right? With your cigarettes and all the commodities and stuff right? No escaping?" Armande pleaded. "Neither of us wants to be torn to bits by Sands or...the other one. Please hang around? You know he can track you down. It'd be better if you saved yourself the trouble and the wrath."

Mort just shrugged, clinging to his cigarettes as if his life depended upon it.

"Is that a yes?"

Mort shrugged his shoulders again, looking down. He mumbled something incoherently.

"C'mon, Mort. I know he seems mostly harmless now, but do you think that's going to stop him from finding you and breaking both your legs if you run away? You've been around him long enough. Please promise you'll stay in your room."

Mort looked up at Armande warily. Although he knew it was someone else speaking, it was still quite odd to hear him say please, much less plead. He gave him a grim look and nodded. "Fine," he mumbled.

Armande made to grip Mort's shoulder with his right hand only to stop midway through the action. He scowled at the cast and instead extended his left hand for a handshake.

"Thank you."

Mort made a face and pushed past him towards the elevators, spotting Ajedrez deep in conversation on a phone. His eyes narrowed as he got closer and heard her whispering. He was incredibly frustrated that he was unfamiliar with the language.

Seeing Mort heading her way with Armande close behind, she hurriedly ended the call, and moved towards the elevators. She gave Armande a seductive smile.

"Do you have to check in or will we just be bad guests and assume that we're all set?" he smiled jovially.

"You were preoccupied," she said dangling a key card in front of his face. "It's all set. The penthouse suite."

"Well, that is fine taste," he murmured. "Shall we go up?"

"Only the best." She purred, and then looked at him doubtfully. "I'm not so sure that you're the best though." She cocked a brow at him.

"And how would you have me prove that I am?"

She put her finger to her lip thoughtfully. "Hm...I don't know." She met his eyes. "How would you prove it to me?"

"By being as creative as I possibly could," he smirked.

She rolled her eyes. "We'll see then won't we?"

He chewed on the end of the cigarette filter thoughtfully as he continued his awkward limp to the elevator. "How much farther is this?"

"Are you getting tired already?" She tsked.

"I don't suppose you've ever had two injured legs, huh? I think, once we get there, it'll be the furthest thing from my mind. And if you say that's wishful thinking, you're in need of a lesson or two," he remarked wryly.

"Are you a professor?" she asked. "Because I am a very, _very_ good pupil." She moved closer to him.

He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and tugged her close. Smoke trailed from the corners of his mouth as he grinned. "I think I can be persuaded to teach a crash course."

"What in?" She pressed her mouth against his ear.

"Well...what would you like?" he murmured.

"Oh, I'll let you decide. What are you good at? I'm quite open, really," she smiled against his ear. Mort was in the corner, grimacing at their display.

"Pain...pleasure...what have you." Armande placed the card from the front desk in the electronic lock of the room marked 327. "Happy camping," he winked, pushing the door open for Mort. "We'll find you in the morning."

"Not too early I hope," he mumbled disappearing into the room.

"Me neither," he shrugged. "Lead on, sugarbutt."

She sashayed down the hall to her room, slid the key card in. and pushed into the room. She didn't bother to flip on lights, leaving the suite shrouded in darkness. Armande followed tamely, enjoying the experience. He'd never really been in a nice hotel before, though he assumed Sands probably had.

"Tell me...what do you have in mind?"

She looked over her shoulder, looking more and more alluring as she disappeared in the shadows. "Oh...just play some games...maybe some chess?"

"I think I can dig it," he smirked.

"I was hoping you could." She dropped her purse and took off her high heels.

"I don't suppose you've got anything more...strenuous...lined up either, hm?"

"Perhaps. Might have to see just how much you're willing to work-how much pain you're willing to suffer..." she said, implying his wounds.

"I like pain," he grinned lazily, exhaling a long stream of smoke.

"Really?" She continued to move about the room in the darkness. She slid around him without his knowledge and pressed her front up against his back, grabbing the wound in his leg and squeezing while sliding her body against his. Her lips were on his ear. "How much do you like it?" Her tongue snaked into his ear and trailed down the side of his neck; her lips smiled against him as she felt, more than heard, his intake of breath. Whether it was from pain or pleasure was anyone's guess.

The sparks and electric heat that exploded from her grip on the knife wound in his thigh immediately made his knee go numb. His head lolled back and his grip on the crutch made his knuckles go white. He wouldn't moan, not yet, but it was an otherworldly experience.

"I guess we'll just have to find out, won't we? That was...nice," he allowed.

She smirked against his neck as her hand slid to the front of his other leg, where the bullet hole was. She knocked on the plaster cast to jar the knitting bones, her arm pressing up against his groin. "How bout that?" She teased as she began to suck on his neck. "That feel-" She knocked harder; her arm was pressed into his groin more firmly. "-nice too?"

"Quite," he ground out around the filter. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was enjoying it. The sensation of her arm in just the right place spurred himself to action and he felt a knot of pleasure in his belly.

She chuckled and stepped away, prancing to the corner where there was a mini bar. She could just barely make out the accompanying fridge. She fumbled around with her lighter until she found the bottle of tequila, and she stood up again, opening the bottle and taking a hearty swig. She hadn't had but one glass of wine at the bar, so she was still completely sober.

Armande, however, had not had the restraint Ajedrez did. Tequila was his poison, preferably with a slice of lime. He'd had several drinks that night and wasn't quite up to snuff; not that he let it stop him. It hadn't prevented Ajedrez from noticing his weakness.

"Want a drink?" she purred somewhere near his ear in the darkness.

"You think I'm going to say no?" he frowned.

"Aw, why the long face?" She rubbed her body against his side tauntingly, waving the bottle of tequila below his nose where he could smell it.

He finally removed the filter from the corner of his mouth and gave her a sarcastic grin. "If you intend on calling me a horse, I insist you do that in private. Unless you mean hung like one, in which case, I'm all ears."

Her laughter floated through the darkness. "I'm quite sure you are. Open your mouth." She tilted his head up and poured the tequila down his throat, overfilling his mouth so that it dribbled down his neck and down his shirt. She moved in front of him to unbutton it slowly. When she got it open, she knelt down and started where the waistband of his jeans were and licked the trail of tequila slowly, returning to his mouth, taking a swig of the tequila herself, before crushing her lips to his and sharing the sip.

The sharp bite of tequila and the insistent tongue would have been enough to make anyone woozy. Armande wrapped his good arm around Ajedrez's shoulder in a half hug, half supporting maneuver. The crutch could only do so much and he felt himself losing his balance. He swung them both over the bar so he could latch onto a surface without crushing her under his weight. He never once broke the kiss.

She stopped a bit breathlessly. "Awww, is getting to be a bit much for you, baby?" She licked his lips. "Well, let's get you off those feet of yours." She pulled him back to her hard and stumbled backwards until the back of her knees hit the bed and they fell onto it a tangle of limbs.

"Unless you'd rather go it on the floor," he grunted and promptly rolled them off the bed and onto the beige carpet with a thump. He grinned wickedly as her eyes narrowed at his attempt to take over. She rolled them again, getting on top and straddling him.

"As long as your the one getting the rug burns."

"Speaking of burn..." He looked around frantically for his still lit cigarette. It wasn't quite his idea of burning up the place. He grabbed it not too far away and quickly pinched it out with nary a flinch. "All set," he smirked.

She leaned close to his face and lit her lighter where he could feel the heat of it. "What's the matter? Don't like to play with fire?" She slithered down his body, bringing the flame in contact with every available inch.

"You're going to burn this hotel to bits." He grunted as the flame came close enough to leave a bright red welt on his thigh. He blew out the lighter with a contrary look. "And it's no fun if I don't get a turn."

"Who said _you're_ supposed to have fun?" She moved to undo his pants, with a wicked grin.

"Would you prefer to do this alone?" he asked, arching a brow. He scooted away awkwardly before she could so much as unbutton his jeans. She smirked and grabbed his crotch and gave it a squeeze before she stood.

"I'm not the desperate one." She moved away through the darkness.

He wouldn't be intimidated or humiliated. "Give me time and you will be equally, if not more desperate."

Her lilting laughter floated through the darkness. "I don't get turned on by fucking monkeys."

"What could possibly possess you to fuck a monkey in the first place? Don't they bite and give you venereal diseases?"

She let out a growl; a stiletto came flying at his head. "Do not insult me."

"Well, I'm terribly sorry, but I thought I was in the presence of a woman who could take as well as she could give."

She slid up behind him and grabbed his crotch again, pulling him flush against her as she bit his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. "Don't fuck with me. I bite..." She licked the droplet of blood that appeared on his shoulder, and then proceeded to suck at the injury, applying varying pressure on his groin.

He hissed at the suddenness of the attack. "_Damn_! That's going to cost you." Armande jerked away and pinned her to the ground. He went in for the kill, ravaging her mouth with a searing kiss.

She kissed him back with fierceness. She could play his game. She arched her body into his, allowing her curves to hit his sharp angles just right. She raked her nails down his back scraping skin and grinning at his hiss of pain.

Oh but was it nice.

He slipped a hand into her pocket and carefully withdrew her lighter without her knowledge: one of his favorite tricks. He snicked it on, careful to lift the back of her shirt before applying it to her skin.

"Fuck!" She gritted her teeth, arching her body harder into his. Her jaw tensed. If that was the way he wanted to play it. She ground her hips against his hard, and while he was distracted, her hands slipped under his shoulders and yanked his hair, giving her the leverage to flip him.

The breath whooshed out of him in a startled gasp. Before he could be taken by surprise again, he snagged the back of her tight pants and dragged her towards him to prevent her fighting. He latched onto the crook of her neck and nipped hard for her insolence.

She bit back a groan and still tried to fight, which made the situation worse. Her body rubbed against his to create a friction so high, that it felt as if the lighter had set their bodies aflame. She sunk her teeth into his neck as he worked on hers. Payback was a bitch.

They may as well have been a couple of vampires fighting over the same victim. He yanked a blanket off the bed which tumbled around their sweaty bodies. The temperature increased even more in their secluded tent.

"You're not shy, are you?" Her hand snaked between their bodies to the button of his pants again. He tried to make her work easier with as little inconvenience to himself as possible.

"Why would you think that?"

"Well...is there a reason for the blanket...?" She kept her hips glued to his as she worked at undoing his pants. Once they were undone, her hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers, even as his hand snaked around to begin tugging her shirt over her head.

"It's kinky. Shut up."

She snorted as she grasped him. "How so?"

"It's priVATE," he grunted at a rough jerk. "It's dark, and it'll be warm when we pass out afterwards."

"It's already dark in the room." She licked up his neck. "You mean when _you_ pass out. You know I'll wear you out, don't you?" She tugged at his ear with her teeth.

"Bullshit," he snorted and dug his nails into her back out of spite.

"Ugh." She jerked her body against his. She lifted her head from his ear and fixed him with a dark stare that was not decipherable in the darkness. "You'll pay for that," she said, digging her nails into his shaft. "You forget where my hands are."

He groaned. That had created a ripple effect up his back and fuck did he want more. He'd had no idea when his last lay was, and from the sensations his body was sending his brain, it'd been too long to ignore.

"Fuck. More."

She grinned at the power she so obviously held in her hands. She stopped her stroking, and removed her hand from his boxers, teasing him. "I'm sorry? Did you want something?"

"Now you're going to make me fucking play?"

She chuckled. "I told you that before we came up here...before _you_ came up here..." She smirked as her fingers brushed him through his boxers.

He grabbed her wrist and tried to focus his gaze on her.

"Shit, girly, you didn't tell me anything. I just came to reap the fucking benefits. Your boy toy's fucking inebriated. Now get this over with or I'm going to do something I won't be proud of."

A grin spread across her lips and a shiver ran down her back as she recognized it as a different persona. This was going to be more than fun. It would be like fucking several people all at once. She leaned over him and nipped at his lips. "What's your name sugar?" She spoke with her lips against his.

"I told you, bitch, I haven't got one," he snapped.

"Ooh...feisty aren't we?" She purred in his ear, her tongue lashing in and out of it. She slid her other hand down to his groin and resumed her playing.

"Girly, you're either going to be fucking serious, or I'm going to be pissed. I'd understand if you haven't seen one before, but stop fucking playing with it! Buy a fucking dildo if you must," he ground out.

She let out a growl, latched onto his earlobe, and dug her nails into him as hard as she could. "Go back in your fucking hole if you don't like it," she ground out around his ear.

"God_damn_, Sam!" he sighed with relief when it was over. "Oh...that's good."

She chuckled. "Armande..." She hummed, releasing his ear to move back to his mouth. Her strokes became softer, barely touching.

"I told you, I'm not fucking Armande," he griped.

This amused her even more. "So, Armande is the playful type. What does that make you?"

"The one that gets pissed off when he's not being fulfilled."

"I see." She stopped touching again and, instead, teased with her mouth, trailing kisses down his neck to suckle on his collarbone. "What do you do when you get pissed?" she smirked.

"I kill people, you dip!"

"Mm." She let him feel the vibrations against his chest. "I've been known to kill too."

"I'll just bet you have. That was real initiative in the smoke shop today, letting the hopeless romantic do your fucking dirty work."

She shrugged. "It's not always about pulling the trigger."

"You could've gone over the desk and strangled him and you know it," he scowled. "You're a fucking spoiled bitch who can't lift a fucking finger-"

"Oh but I can lift other things," she said rotating her hips.

"-to do her own fucking bidding. You rely on the fucking minions you can buy over with cheap sex and liquour. You're a fucking whore, no more, no less," he finished with a growl.

She laughed and slapped him smartly across the face. "Damn, do I _have_ to keep my lips on yours to keep from hearing all that nonsense coming out of that sexy mouth of yours?" She crushed her lips on his.

He made to fling her off him, but when his fingers closed vise-like around her upper arm, he stopped. She had opened her mouth wider, preparing to bite down on his tongue, when he went still. She looked into his eyes, which were centimeters from hers, and a shiver of excitement went down her spine at what she was able to see through the darkness.

It looked like fear. It was only there a second, soon to be replaced by confusion.

"Should I even ask?" he murmured.

"No." she said. She once again crushed her mouth to his-whoever the hell he was. His eyes widened in alarm. He didn't give in to the kiss, but he didn't reject her either. Ajedrez scowled and shoved against him to get up. She threw the blanket across the room. "Get out!" she demanded, pointing to the door.

"Christ on a cracker, I hate women," Sands muttered under his breath. He had to perform some special moves to get his pants in order again, mostly ignoring Ajedrez.

"Fucking monkey," she grumbled under her breath. She moved to get a cigarette out of her purse only to remember that she didn't have her lighter. She sighed irritably and stalked over to Sands, sticking her hand out before her. "Give me my fucking lighter."

"I don't have your lighter," Sands scowled.

"Yes. You. Do," she said, crossing her arms and tapping her foot impatiently. "Don't think I won't frisk you for it."

"You know, under different circumstances, I might've enjoyed that. Not now. I'm tired, I'm sore, I don't know where I am, I don't know who you are, and, frankly, it's a bit of a mood killer. I can't imagine why I'd have your precious cigarette lighter because I wasn't here two seconds ago. Now, if you'd be so kind as to fuck off, I think it'd do the both of us a world of good," Sands replied.

Her eyes narrowed as she moved closer to him. Her hands snaked into the back pockets of his jeans, pulling him flush against her. She smirked and held him close for a moment before stepping away holding up her lighter. She stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and lit it, taking a stroll to the balcony, sliding open the glass door, and stepping out. She shivered in the cool Denver breeze. She looked over her shoulder to see what Sands was doing.

He looked to be seriously considering leaving. His gaze was trained on a cigarette filter with a brown butt still screwed in the end. The woman on the balcony wasn't smoking hand rolled ones. The only logical explanation was that it was his. He pocketed it and quickly rolled himself a fresh one before he left in earnest.

Ajedrez scowled in frustration as he left. She smoked her cigarette vigourously before tossing the butt off the balcony and heading back into the room.

XXX

Sands was wandering aimlessly down the hall while the cigarette slowly got sucked down to naught. He tried to evaluate his position and found he simply couldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. Instead, he gave into the empty buzzing of his mind and nearly walked right into Mort. Mort gave Sands a sheepish look before ducking to go back the way he'd come.

"Hey wait, what are you doing here? Where is here?" Sands called.

Mort hesitated only a moment, but continued to move in the opposite direction of Sands.

"Shit, I just want to know what the fuck I've done! Is that so fucking wrong?" Sands yelled.

Mort's eyes darted back towards him and he hurried even faster. Sands was in a mood again. He'd probably just realized about Armande, Mort figured. He clutched the bucket of ice to his chest and fumbled with his key card, putting it in the door and quickly slipping in before Sands caught up.

"Mort, goddamn it, _answer me_!" Sands punched the door with a sure right hand. When the cast smashed against his abused fingers and rattled his mangled hand, he dropped to his knees with a moan. This only served to jar his two leg wounds which started an ache right between his eyes. "Oh Christ," he whispered. "Mort, I'm not going to fucking hurt you! Open the damn door!"

"Why would I want to open the door if you're going to 'fucking hurt me'?" Mort called.

"You're not listening! I said I _wasn't_ going to fucking hurt you!" Sands voice was muffled from having to yell it into his sleeve.

Mort frowned and slowly cracked open the door to see Sands crouched on the floor. He was stubbornly trying to keep control.

"Listen...I know what it looks like. I'm not interested in hurting you," Sands muttered.

"Isn't that what you've always said? That you don't _want_ to hurt me?" Mort gave him a skeptical look.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think I could right now if I did want to."

Mort saw that he was speaking the truth and opened the door wider. He looked down at Sands with a little smirk. "Did you have a nice time?"

"I don't know." He rolled his eyes. "Does it seem like I did?"

"No. You look like shit."

"Okay. Help me up?"

Mort looked down at Sands with a bit of concern. He stuck out his good arm to help him to his feet, knowing better than to question him. Sands didn't play dirty and simply allowed himself to be tugged upwards.

They stumbled into the room together: two cripples. Mort helped Sands to a chair and then sat himself on the bed. He looked at Sands expectantly, waiting for him to tell what had happened, or what he knew of what had happened.

Sands had a different plan.

"What happened on the plane? That's the last thing I remember; we were about to touch down."

Mort made a face. "_Armande_ made his appearance and took his 20 minutes of fame. An extended 20 minutes. He was...baited by some Mexican beauty," he snorted.

"Armande? Another...one?"

Mort nodded solemnly. "And the nameless one made several guest appearances as well."

"Well, as long as I've got one that's not an entity, I guess we're all set then. And that's how I woke up sucking on the Mexican tart upstairs?"

"You're asking me?"

"Guess not," Sands sighed. "Christ, I hate this."

Mort shrugged. "You get used to it after a while," he muttered more to himself.

Sands snorted, "Sorry. Forgot."

Mort's eye twitched. "At least I only have _one_."

"At least I didn't create mine," Sands pointed out.

"Is it saner to have them morph into existence?" Mort snapped.

"Under periods of extreme stress, I wouldn't doubt it was possible for emotions to morph into separate beings if the need arose. To protect the head honcho, as it were. At least I never planned to go ape shit on you people in the cabin like you wanted to on Theodore and Amy."

"Fuck you! I didn't do...anything…" he trailed off.

"Didn't we just establish that you created Shooter? Why would Shooter kill Theodore and Amy if you didn't create him to?"

Mort clapped his hands to his ears. "Shut up!" he growled.

Sands sighed. "I'm not fighting with you because I don't have the energy. But one of these days, you're going to realize that you did it, no matter how indirectly. And that's going to be the day that Shooter saves your life. You're going to hate him, hate me and you're going to hate yourself. But right now, they're still dead, I'm still right, and you and Shooter are still separate persons. Think about that as you fall asleep, tonight."

He grabbed the big, fluffy comforter off the end of the bed and awkwardly spread it on the ground before sliding out of the chair and on top of it. It wasn't comfortable, but it was better than nothing.

Mort breathed heavily through his nose as Sands spread out the comforter on the floor. He laid back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling until sleep finally took over.

XXX

Mort jerked awake early the next morning to pounding on the door. "Sands," he said groggily. Sands grunted, but didn't wake up. Mort frowned as the pounding continued. There was only one person in Colorado that knew where they were at, unless the authorities had caught up with them. Mort grabbed a pillow and smacked Sands on the head hard.

"I didn't tease the crocodile!" Sands jolted upright, with a cry. "Wha? What the hell?"

Ajedrez was seething, pounding on the door with Sands' crutch. Mort looked at Sands anxiously.

"There's someone at the door," he squeaked. Sands winced, last night's alcohol and headache catching up with him.

"I couldn't tell."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to get it?"

"I'd rather wait and find out who it is first. Whoever it is will be screaming at us to open the door any second now."

"How can you be so-"

"Armande, or whoever the fuck you, are open the goddamned door!" Ajedrez hissed, smacking the crutch against the door hard enough to crack it. Sands smirked.

"No Armande here. Try next door!" he answered.

"Open. The goddamn. Door," she said slowly though her teeth.

"I could, but then I'd have to report you to the police."

"For what?" she spat.

"For stalking and threat of bodily harm."

"I did no such thing! I'm returning your fucking crutch!" she ground out with a few more whacks on the door.

"You're breaking it is what you're doing."

"How do you think breaking a crutch is going to stand up next to killing a smoke shop clerk?"

Sands' eyes narrowed at the question and turned to Mort before he replied.

"I'm not sure, I savvy. Come again?"

Mort bit his lip. "Let's just keep the authorities out of this ok?"

"What did I _do_?" Sands mouthed sharply.

"You shot the guy."

"Goddamn it." Sands crawled up the bed to gain a footing and shuffle stepped around the room towards the door. He yanked it open and glared at the pissed off Hispanic girl.

She met was in mid knock with the crutch when the door opened; it sunk into Sands' stomach. She smirked at the look that crossed his face. She pushed him back easily, making her way into the room and shutting the door behind her.

"You bastard," she hissed.

He was knocked backward into the bed with a groan. He clutched his belly in pain, but recovered fairly quickly. "What'd I do now? Forget to give you a good night kiss?"

"You could say that," she said, pursing her lips.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"Like I said, I'm returning your crutch."

She thrust it into his hand. Ajedrez pulled him up from the bed; a smirk played at the corners of her lips as she crushed her lips to his and pressed their bodies together. When she felt him begin to respond, she pulled her mouth from his and whispered in his ear, "I've a proposition for you. Meet me in Acapulco in 3 days at the Holiday Inn at 9 PM, if you're interested." She gave his ear a quick lick, then pulled away swiftly. She turned and blew him a kiss, as she made her way to the door, her hips swaying alluringly. Sands blinked as the door swung shut.

"I wasn't just hallucenating, was I?"

Mort's mouth was hanging open by her blatant display. He shook his head. "Nuh-uh. What did she say?" he asked ungluing his eyes from the door to look at Sands.

"That we have to meet her in three days at a hotel. Do you think she'd call the police if we didn't?"

Mort shrugged. "Dunno...she's got nothing to lose if she did," he pointed out.

"Shit." Sands stood up suddenly, anger apparent in his eyes. "Fuck!" He hurled the crutch across the room and fell back on the bed. Got the gun out of the small of his back and looked it over before pointing the muzzle squarely in the middle of his forehead.

Mort started to panic. "Wait! What are you doing?" he cried, trying to figure out whether he should move towards him or away from him.

"What's it look like? I'm going to stop this shit before it gets any more twisted," Sands muttered tonelessly.

"No! You can't! What will I do then?"

"Be free. Run the fuck away. What do I care?"

"Fine, I'll just be going then." He headed towards the door. Sands undid the safety and cocked the gun.

"Shit. Don't do this, please?" Mort asked quietly from the door.

"Why not?"

Mort shrugged helplessly. "You're just gonna give up and let them win?"

"Who could possibly win that would make me care?"

"Oh come on! You're not that weak are you?" Mort scowled, annoyed with his show.

"Would you prefer I got you captured by the police?"

Mort shuddered. "You wouldn't because that's why you're planning on shooting yourself."

"That's part of the reason, yes."

"See, so there's nothing to worry about on that front."

"And if I don't pull this trigger, I will meet this crazy bitch I never seen before, and there most certainly will be something on that front and advancing quickly."

"Why? What do you mean?" Mort looked puzzled.

"She'll call the police. They'll come after us. Maine will come after us. The CIA will come after us. Dangerbabe and Tom will be at the forefront. We'll both be strapped to beds while fucking House preps two syringes of anti-crazy serum. We'll be fucking out of it until they execute us. One of us might as well get out of it scotch free."

Mort just stared at him his mouth hanging open, hand on the doorknob.

"Can't talk me out of it, can you? I thought not."

"Well...j-just shoot me first then! I don't want to go through that!" He waved his arms around his head and squeezed his eyes shut, awaiting the bullet.

"Why do you have a death wish? You did shit."

Mort cracked open his eyes. "But you said they'd do it to both of us."

"Clean your ears once in awhile. If I don't die, you will be hunted. If I do, you'll be fine. Savvy?"

"Since when do you care about me?" Mort moved towards Sands, glaring.

"I don't. I'm not doing this for you. I'm outlining your perks since you seemed to give a damn about me."

"I don't give a damn about you!" Mort lunged forward, attempting to wrestle the gun from his hand.

"Then let me do it, you fuckmook!" Sands hissed, not letting go of the gun.

Mort tried frantically to wrack his mind for a way to bring out one of the other personas. "You're a fucking pussy just giving in like this!" he spat.

"Why the fuck do you _care_?"

"Who said I did? I certainly didn't." He paused and looked thoughtful. "Did you say anything Shooter?" He acted like he was hearing a response. "Nope. Shooter doesn't give a fuck either."

"Then why won't you let me do this?"

"Because there'd be one hell of a mess."

Sands redid the safety and let Mort have the gun. "Fair enough, clean freak. I'll go strangle myself instead."

Mort breathed a sigh of relief as Sands reset the safety. Then he looked at the gun horrified as Sands handed it to him. He tossed it from hand to hand till he finally let it drop to the floor with a clunk.

Sands didn't care; he had gone in search of something that could serve as a rope. Mort didn't know how close he'd come to almost persuading Sands to stop. But the writer had shown his true colors and proved that he was a selfish bastard. If he didn't care that Sands was around or not...oh well. Sands found a sheet. It would have to do.

Mort groaned and moved after Sands. "Stop fucking around!" he yelled. He tried to yank the sheet from him, ensuing in a tug of war.

Sands backhanded Mort viciously across the cheek. "Stop pretending to fucking care!"

Mort reeled backwards. "What do you know about pretending?" he spat.

"A damn sight more than you!"

Mort yanked on the sheet hard, bringing Sands down to the floor with him. "Just stop it ok? Please?" he hissed.

"_Why_? Give me one fucking plausible reason!"

"Because..." Mort paused.

"_WHY_?"

"Because I don't want you to kill yourself!"

Sands yanked the sheets back from Mort with a glare. "You still haven't answered my question! Why should I fucking live to make you happy?"

"Because...you're not all that bad of a guy..." he mumbled looking down at his lap.

"Come again?"

"I said you're not a bad guy. Don't ask me to say it again because I won't," Mort said with a glare, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What have I ever done for you?"

Mort shrugged, still looking away. "Does it matter?"

"YES!"

Mort cowered at his outburst. "Y-you haven't hurt me again," he mumbled.

"So where'd that giant red mark on your face come from I wonder?" Sands snapped.

Mort touched his face tenderly and winced. He looked up at Sands sheepishly. "You got DB out of jail." He was scrabbling for the few good deeds Sands had performed.

"What. Have I done. For _you_."

"Why do you have had to do something for me for me to think you're not a bad guy?"

"Because if you don't really want me alive, you must need me alive for some despicable end. I just want to know where I stand."

Mort let out a frustrated cry, leaned forward, and slapped him smartly across the cheek. "Snap the fuck out of it!"

"Thanks for putting me in my place. Will you be needing me in chains and leather next?" Sands sighed, giving up his hold on the sheets. So damn useless, all of it.

_I always knew you were a pussy._

"So what if I am?"

_You're giving yourself a bad image._

"I don't care anymore."

_Fuck you,_ Harrison.

Mort watched Sands converse with one of the voices in his head. "Which is it?" Mort asked quietly.

"Which's what?" he muttered.

"Which one were you talking to?"

"I don't know. I don't care. They're all the same."

"Oh." Mort rubbed his cheek where Sands had hit him. He changed the subject after an awkward silence. "So...are you gonna go meet her?"

"I have to."

"What? Why?" His brow puckered in confusion. _He_ didn't see why Sands had to...

"Because you won't let me die and you don't want the police to chase us. There's no alternative."

Mort quirked a brow, but nodded, as if he understood.

Harrison sighed. "I'm going back to bed. Wake me up in three days. Or the Apocalypse. Which ever comes first."

Mort began to get worried. "What if she does call the cops? She knows where we're at...Shouldn't we be on the move, not staying too long in one spot?"

"I know what I'm doing. Trust me. Even if you despise me, trust me."

"I don't." Mort trailed off with a scowl. He wasn't going to say anything about it anymore.

"Christ, what the fuck do you _want_ from me?"

"Nothing!" Mort yelled, plopping down heavily in a chair.

"What the fuck do you want me to do? Tell me! Get me on even fucking ground before I go insane!"

"I just think that we should go someplace that she doesn't know where we're at," Mort said slowly.

"They're going to find us! Don't you fucking get it! All she wants is that we meet her in three fucking days! She will do nothing until then! She can't! In three days we will be there in her good fucking graces or we'll be running again! That's all there is! _Res ipsa loquitur_!"

"Okay! Okay! We'll stay here! I really don't give a shit!" Mort held his hands up.

"No. Fine. We'll go. I don't care. Fuck it. Grab your stuff. You drive," Harrison grumbled.

"What will I drive? We haven't a car here..."

"I don't know. I don't care. You're the one that wants to leave, you figure it out."

"I said I didn't care!" Mort shouted, getting frustrated. He began working his jaw.

"You obviously do or you wouldn't be yelling. Do whatever you want. You're going to anyway."

"Ah most certainly am," Shooter drawled giving Harrison a sharp look. "You again." His eyes narrowed.

Harrison shuddered from his spot on the floor. "You again."

"What are you doin' here?" Shooter asked with a glare as he stood up to circle Harrison.

"I assure you, if your fucking other wasn't a pigheaded little shit, I wouldn't be."

"Well, I get along much better with your other half as well-or as the case is, quarter."

"Leave me alone. I don't want to deal with you."

"Nor I you, but we're a bit stuck here, ain't we?" Shooter moved closer while his eyes narrowed all the more.

"There's bound to be a breakfast buffet downstairs. Go 'way."

"Well now see...that might be appealin' iffin I was hungry, but I ain't."

"Take a walk! A swim! Anything, for fuck's sake!"

"I'm a gettin' reeeal tired of you," Shooter drawled, coming closer.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

"I don' think I'm inclined to do that." He lunged and got Harrison in a headlock. "I don' much like you," he drawled.

"Fuck you!" Harrison cracked his elbow across Shooter's face.

Shooter hissed in pain. "Now that ain't very nice..."

"Let me go!" Harrison managed to punch Shooter in the nose with a strong left hook. He hit him again and again as he felt his own consciousness slipping.

"Nice goin' Cowboy..." Shooter's drawl was slurred. He kept his grip on Harrison as he began to fall. Harrison was dragged down on top of Shooter, his breaths coming in pants.

"Likewise..."

Everything went black as they hit the ground, their arms and legs in a tangle.

**Honour Roll: Merrie-**Yeah, sorry about whats her face. No convenient deaths for her. Glad you and House got your last couple minutes of glory. **Gena-**An hour? Wow, more power to you! Might have to see about another fic eventually. **midnightmuse-**Here's more, soon!


	14. Legume of Doom

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: The world is falling down around Sheldon Jeffrey Sands and Morton Rainey. What's the next step towards a grander plan?

**Disclaimer**: Nobody belongs to us. We're unloved.

**Author's Notes: **We learn some interesting stuff about our friends in this chapter. Slightly AU, but not terribly so. And I'd like to point out that while this update was slow in coming, we have, like, ten more chapters written (but not edited) and a third of a sequel written. We've not been totally lax.

**Legume of Doom**

Sands stared forlornly out the window of the business jet. The way he figured it, the whole mess had started when he'd ridden with the common folk on a Southwestern flight. He wouldn't make that same mistake twice; he'd hired a private plane to take them to the snotspeck town in Mexico. He rubbed at his neck absently, the scarring having turned to a nasty green color. Mort hadn't looked much better with a broken nose.

"Why are we going to Acapulco again?" Sands asked suddenly.

Mort scowled and rolled his eyes. "Because you've got a boner for that Spanish chick."

"I've met her once. She tried to kill me then," Sands said sternly.

"Did she now? I thought she tried to bed you."

"Wasn't me."

"Whatever." Mort mumbled. "It was your body she wanted, so it doesn't really matter."

"Oh good, I always wanted to be a sex toy. It was my ambition in second grade. I became a CIA operative instead."

Mort sighed and leaned his head back closing his eyes. "Then you'll be quite pleased with her," he murmured.

"I doubt it. She tried to kill me," he reminded Mort.

"How?"

"She was going to beat me with my crutch, remember?"

Mort frowned, irritated that Sands wouldn't shut up so he could sleep. "She was bringing it back to you!" he grumbled.

"If you were going to bring a hoe back to the person you borrowed it from, would you beat him with it before you gave it back to him? Is that a bit of etiquette I forgot to read up on?"

"You opened the door while she was in mid-knock." He shifted, turning his back to Sands hoping the slighter man would get the message.

Sands knew Mort wanted nothing more than to curl up and take a nap, but he was a spiteful bastard who rarely forgot things. Sands remembered a certain night at a motel when he wanted to go to sleep and found it impossible.

"Do you break the hoe trying to bust his door down to give it back to him? Or are you trying to say she was just a tad overzealous?"

"If that's what it takes to get you to open your fucking door, yes!" Mort cried with frustration. "Now will you _please_ shut up?"

"Aw, did someone not get enough sleep last night? Poor baby," Sands rolled his eyes.

Mort growled, and squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"I bet you can't ignore me."

Mort didn't reply.

"I have a secret weapon."

Mort shifted, but still didn't reply.

Sands glanced over and poked Mort sharply in the ribs.

Mort jumped, and jerked his head in Sands' direction. "What the hell?" He glared at Sands as he rubbed his ribs.

"Secret weapon," Sands nodded.

Mort frowned, "What do you want from me?"

"A person to talk to before I sign my doom. You alright with that?"

Mort scowled, settling further in the seat, facing forward. "I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?"

"Nope. Shit, I'll talk about anything. What's been bothering you? Besides me."

"Oh, I dunno...let's see...Harry, Armande, the nameless one... Would you like me to continue?" He shot Sands an irritated look.

"What about them?"

"They've been bothering me."

"Me too," Sands nodded.

"_Shit_! Will you not leave me alone?" Mort pouted.

Sands frowned. "Why do you not want me to leave you alone? I mean, I'm not, but that was kind of a strange request."

"I was being fucking facetious!" Mort groaned.

"I'm not."

"Obviously," Mort rolled his eyes.

"Listen, I have experience dealing with cranks. I'm not going to let you sleep just yet, so you might as well just make it easy on yourself. Besides, the sooner you humour me, the sooner you can sleep."

"How would you like me to humour you?" Mort asked bitterly.

"Just talk. Distract me, ok?"

"Distract you? From _what_?"

"The succubus at the other end of this trip."

Mort sighed heavily. "How would you like me to distract you? Unlike you, I don't talk to myself."

"Why do I need you to talk to yourself? I need you to talk to me."

"Talk to your fucking self! Or one of _them_."

"And further aggravate the condition? The more I acknowledge something's there, the more often it's going to come out."

Mort shrugged, "It's going to come out anyway. Damn, how long is this flight?" He looked over Sands out the window.

"I'm going to bet 'too long' and raise you a 'damned if I know.' "

Mort sighed and leaned back in his seat, defeated.

"That doesn't sound like talking to me."

Mort turned his head and glared at Sands, his lips pressed tightly together.

"Do not make me poke you again," Sands persisted.

"You wouldn't," Mort said through his teeth.

Sands scoffed and poked Mort in the oblique muscles this time. Mort jerked, his arm reflexively flinging out and smacking Sands in the chest. Sands reached around and poked Mort square in the belly. He squealed and leapt up, glowering at Sands, and then stalked down the aisle of the plane to a seat behind Sands.

Sands grinned. He still had a few packets of airline peanuts. Those would work nicely. He ripped open a pack, selected a nice, full-bodied nut and aimed carefully. He flicked the nut at Mort, which bounced against the other man's forehead with a soft _thump_.

Mort hunkered down in his seat rubbing his forehead, staring straight ahead and ignoring Sands. Sands did it again with only half a nut. It pinged off Mort's shoulder. The author brushed at his shoulder absentmindedly, his eyes darkening. Another peanut bounced off his chest. A fourth hit him on the cheek.

Mort jumped up, flinging out his arms, grimacing as it pulled at his shoulder. "Goddammit! Do you ever _stop_?"

"Eventually. Just not now."

"_Why_?" Mort scratched at his arms, still feeling nuts flying at him.

"Well, since you're not babbling, I figured I'd take matters into my own hands."

"Why do I need to babble?"

"Didn't I already ask you politely to talk? You refused."

"I'm not a fucking circus," Mort muttered, scratching his head as the plane lurched. He grabbed onto the seat to steady himself. His face went pale. "What the hell was that?" He didn't much like flying, much less on these tiny little Learjets.

"Turbulence. You think some asshole's trying to shoot us down? They wouldn't dare." Sands took the opportunity to launch another nut at Mort.

Mort flinched as it hit him between the eyes. He shot Sands a look, and flicked his ear hard. "I said stop it!" he yelled, kicking his seat forward.

Sands hunkered down in the chair, emptying the remaining contents of the bag into his hand. With a yell, he flipped around in his seat and flung them all at Mort: a rain of salt and roasted legumes.

"Ahhh!" Mort cried, swinging his arms frantically trying to get the nuts off of him. They made him itch.

"Take that, you fiend! And that!" Sands cried, pelting Mort with nut after nut.

"Gah! Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!" Mort cried, scratching at his arms and head and face frantically, his head thrashing.

"Say Uncle!"

Mort continued his frantic scratching, beginning to gasp for air. He was digging his ragged nails into his skin so hard, that there were deep grooves in his arms that were starting to bleed. Sands frowned, wondering if there could be something sinister afoot. He stopped his peanut hurling for the moment.

"Mort, if you're fishing for sympathy, you haven't got it."

He didn't seem to hear Sands. He had blood under his fingernails now, and was smearing it everywhere else.

"Shit," Sands hissed. "Don't die on me!" He all but fell out of the chair in an attempt to scramble to the cockpit. He tore open the door with a mad look in his eye. "One of you better get your asses in gear, my friend is having an allergic reaction!"

Mort's face started to turn purple as he continued scratching and gasping for air. He couldn't breathe. His mouth opened and closed, much like a fish's, as he attempted to suck in air to no avail. His eyes began to bug out.

"Land the fucking plane!" Sands yelled.

"The nearest airport is 15 minutes away, sir, calm down!" the pilot demanded.

"He's going to die, fuckwad! Land the goddamn plane!"

_Look at you Morty. Cain't even handle having pea-nuts thrown at you. You dun gonna get all choked up about it._

"Fuck you." Mort managed to gasp out as he began wheezing. He looked around frantically for Sands, still scratching halfheartedly.

The pilot didn't need to be told twice. He radioed some mysterious entity that an emergency landing would need to commence to save a sick passenger. Sands was satisfied when the plane began a downward slope and managed to get back to Mort.

"Hang on, you bastard, do not die on me."

Mort laid across a couple of seats, rasping, his lips turning blue, and his eyes rolling into his head. He was dying...he could feel it...damn Sands and his fucking peanuts!

Sands slapped Mort and alternately brushed all traces of peanut off Mort's clothes. "Stay awake, you little batard! Stay awake!"

Mort knew there was a reason he despised those pesky peanuts they handed out on the planes. He shook his head as Sands slapped him, his eyes stuck staring into his skull.

"Mort! You're a pussy and need to be castrated! You're a stupid little boy who can't tell his ass from his elbow! You can't breathe because you don't fucking want to! Stop being a fucking child and _breathe_!"

Mort's eyes flew open and he tried once again to gasp in some air, but still it wouldn't flow. His airway was swollen. He glared at Sands, more than disoriented, and was jostled as the plane set down roughly.

Sands hefted Mort over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and loped towards the exit. "Hang on, fuckmook. You're gonna be fine."

XXX

**Where am I?** Mort thought. It was bright, and...nothingness...

_Yer dead Morty. I dun tole you not to mess with that psycho._

**What? Dead? How can I be dead? I can't be conversing with my alter-hey fuck off!** Mort's eyes opened, and everything came into focus sharply. There was a tube down his throat that was supposedly helping him breathe although it felt as if it was hindering it. His eyes scanned the bland hospital room that was brightly lit with fluorescent lights. Where the hell was that psycho?

Sands was in the waiting room pacing furiously.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid! How the fuck didn't you know he was allergic to peanuts! You know everything else about him! Stupid!"

_So what if the intelligence isn't complete on John Wayne? It's not like you really care about him, do you?_

"I shouldn't have killed him!"

_You didn't. Not yet anyway._

"I probably did! And now that bitch is going to call the police because we're not landing in Acapulco!"

_Call her._

"What?"

_You know the hotel. Call her._

"Damn, I hate it when you're right," Sands snarled and finally threw himself into a chair. He took out his cell phone and requested the number for the Holiday Inn of Acapulco Mexico. An attendant picked up.

"Hola, Holiday Inn de Acapulco. Puedo ayudarle?"

"I'm looking for an Ajedrez in your hotel. I need to contact her."

"Cual sala, senor?"

"I don't fucking know, look her up," he hissed.

"Senor!" the attendant gasped. The line clicked off and it immediately began ringing again. He heard the click of the line being picked up and didn't wait for a salutation.

"Ajedrez."

"Armande! So nice to hear from you." She spoke in a smooth amused voice. "Wasn't expecting to hear from you before you arrived. Where are you baby, you can meet me early?"

"I'm not fucking Armande; your boyfriend turned tail and ran three days ago. I'm calling before you get the wrong impression," Sands sighed.

Her tone turned sour. "And that would be..? You're not standing me up are you?" she said with steel in her voice.

"Wouldn't fucking dream of it," Sands muttered. "I'm telling you there's going to be a delay."

She pursed her lips. "How much of one?" She did have a time frame to keep. She had to reel him in, have him wrapped around her little finger within 4 days...

"Fuck me...one or two days. I don't know. I haven't seen the doctor yet."

She began to seethe. "You better have a good fucking excuse. What's the doctor going to tell you? You're fucking psycho? I could've told you that."

"Not shit, Sherlock!" Sands snapped. He glared at the raised eyebrows and slid further down in his seat. "No, Mort's in the fucking hospital. Fucking peanut allergy."

"Mort? Why the _fuck_ are you bringing that monkey along?"

"Do you know how fucking hard I worked to track the little bastard down to begin with? I'm not giving him up because some Spanish harlot wants me to skip on down to Mexico!"

"Fuck you-or rather fuck me." She chuckled. "Fine. You have an extension of 24 hours. Do. Not. Be. Late," she said, enunciating each word, before she slammed the phone down.

Sands was on the brink of crushing his phone in his remaining fingers. Instead he hung up the phone and stepped outside. He needed to shoot something now.

A nurse cautiously approached Sands. "Sir...Your friend is awake now."

Sands whirled, quickly removing his hand from the hilt of the gun in the front of his waistband. "Uh...thank you. Is he...ok?"

She nodded, a little startled at how quickly Sands had whirled. "Yes, I'm sure he's just itching for the tube to be removed from his throat though..."

"So why don't you?" he frowned.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not the doctor, and we've yet to receive any orders to remove it," she said timidly. She lead the way to Mort's room. Sands refused to say anything else until he saw Mort for himself. And the feeling that he was walking into a trap wasn't helping any.

Mort's eyes darted to the doorway when he heard voices coming from down the hall. He watched as the nurse strolled to his side and smiled warmly down at him.

"How are you feeling Mr. Rainey?" she asked.

He tried to talk, but all he did was gurgle, and then begin to cough and choke on the tube.

"I wouldn't talk. It'll only end in tears," Sands murmured from his position behind the nurse. Mort heard him, and strained to see him.

"Are you okay?" Sands asked softly.

Mort glared at him and grappled at something on the stand by the bed. He flung a plastic fork that bounced off Sands' forehead. If he couldn't convey his anger in words, he could convey it in actions. Then he flipped Sands off with a jerk of his hand. Sands took it with a stiff upper lip.

"You could've told me you were allergic."

Mort flapped his arms around in annoyance. How the hell was he supposed to know he was allergic? He didn't eat the things, he found them disgusting.

"Should've told me something wasn't right. You know I don't respond well to 'Stop.'"

Mort's eyes narrowed. If he was able, he would've attempted to strangle Sands with his IV.

"As it is, we've got a reprieve. So...if nothing else...thanks. I...owe you."

Mort rolled his eyes. He looked up at the nurse, waving his arms around gesturing to the tube down his throat.

"I'm sorry, we've yet to hear from the doctor."

"Take it out," Sands said.

She looked at Sands, fearful. "I-I can't."

"I'll say it again. Take the tube out of Mort."

"I-I ca-can't." She blushed. "I don't know how."

Sands rolled his eyes and approached the bed. "You want this thing out, don't you?"

Mort saw Sands approaching and his eyes grew wide. He wanted it out, but not by the hand of Sands. He shook his head frantically no.

"Goddamn it, man, make up your mind!" Sands snapped. "Trust me!"

Mort's eyes were wide as he stopped shaking his head and finally nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut, keeping one cracked open waiting for Sands to make a move.

"Don't bite, and don't move." Sands leaned towards the headboard to get a better view of the tube down the other man's throat. He held the tube gently between his index and middle finger on his right hand and began to ease it out slowly with his left. Once he established a rhythm, the going was pretty easy and the tube was out in no time. He squeezed Mort's shoulder briefly before turning to the nurse. "Don't know how?"

She bit her lip and moved backwards. "I was told not to do anything we haven't been shown. I'm only an intern," she squeaked.

Mort began to cough and sputter once the tube was removed. He gasped and swallowed in mouthful after mouthful of air.

"Would you believe that's the first time I've ever removed a tube from a person? Oh it's good fun, you should try it some time."

She continued moving away from Sands and when she reached the door, she sprinted down the hall away from them.

Mort's eyes narrowed at Sands. "You fucking idiot!" he croaked.

"What's your problem now? I did you a fucking favor," Sands growled.

"You nearly killed me!"

"I might not've if you'd told me you were having a reaction," Sands reminded him.

"How the hell was I supposed to know I was having a reaction? It just started itching, there's nothing odd about itching!"

"There's everything odd about itching, you dumbfuck! It's your body's way of telling you something's fucking wrong!"

Mort scowled, and pushed back the covers. "Are we ready to go?" he asked.

"We'd better be or I'm going to be pissed. Where'd the chickadee go?"

"Does it matter? Let's get out of here."

"Well, if we're going to be caught and reprimanded, I'd rather just have to explain the whole thing now."

"We won't be caught." Mort said gritting his teeth, moving to change his clothes.

"Just the same, hurry up. We've gotta get back to the plane."

Mort's stomach flopped. "We gotta fly again?" he asked.

"Do you want to walk?" Sands quirked an eyebrow.

"How far is it?"

"Somewhere in Nevada, I'd wager. We didn't get very far," Sands remarked dryly.

Mort frowned. "Can we not travel by land? At least they don't serve peanuts," he muttered.

"You hand me the money I paid for that plane to take us to Acapulco, and you can drive us through two fucking massive states and a honking huge scorching desert. If that's your scene, I can most certainly respect that."

Mort scowled. "Just don't throw any more nuts at me, ok?"

"Scout's honor. By air, then?"

Mort sighed and nodded. "Since there's no other choice."

"I dunno, I would have rather liked to have gotten back a couple extra dollars, but fair's fair. Let's go, John Wayne."

Mort grumbled as he followed Sands out of the hospital and into a cab that took them back to the airport. Mort uneasily followed Sands back onto the plane, and sat in the seat behind him. He shot Sands a look. "Are you going to let me sleep now?"

"Fuck, didn't you sleep enough at the hospital?" Sands snorted.

Mort frowned. "Did I?" He didn't remember sleeping, only waking.

"Don't know about you, but that's what happens when I get...oper..." Sands shook his head and dropped the subject. "Sleep all you fucking want, I don't care."

Mort sighed, relieved, and leaned back against the seats, closing his eyes as the jet throttled down the runway and into the sky.

XXX

It was almost 4 AM when the plane landed. Sands was hovering in the state between wakefulness and sleep where demons came out to play. The announcement of their descent managed to shake him awake to the point of semi rational thought. The feeling of imminent doom supplied the rest of the thought.

"Mort, wake up, we're here."

Mort groaned, but did nothing more than shift in his seat. Sands sighed and leaned in close over Mort to whisper in his ear.

"Peanut."

Mort jerked awake scratching frantically at his arms. "Gah!" When he realized there were no peanuts, he gave Sands a death glare. "That. Was. Not. Funny," he hissed.

"The world belongs to the light sleepers. Come on. It's early and we've got a dame to meet."

_Dame bitch,_ someone added.

Mort frowned. "Say wha?" He rubbed his eyes sleepily. "What time is it?"

"Exceptionally early. Now come on."

Mort stumbled out of the plane behind Sands. "Where are we going?" He covered his mouth as he yawned.

"Holiday Inn," Sands murmured distractedly. The air was the perfect temperature: a cool 70 Fahrenheit with an ocean breeze. Sands wondered if maybe a bit of exploring wouldn't go amiss. Assuming, of course, Dame Bitch wasn't totally heartless.

Mort wrinkled up his nose. "They have those out here?"

"They have McDonalds in vegan India; why wouldn't they have a Holiday Inn at the most touristy town in Little Old Mehico?"

"Dunno...I'm game as long as they've got a bed..." he mumbled.

"Okay, have you ever thought about maybe getting your brain checked for a concussion? Because nobody needs to sleep for some 16 odd hours," Sands said sharply.

"I'm fatigued." He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

"Too fatigued. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you got too close to a tsetse fly. You ever been to Africa, John Wayne?"

_You sound like that House guy._

"Goddamn it, I do not! If I wanted to sound like House, I'd limp and pretend I'm a bitter old bastard."

_You mean that wasn't your bitter old bastard impression? And if that isn't a limp, I just don't know what is._

"Shut up!"

Mort didn't even glance at Sands as he conversed with himself. He took it upon himself to hail a cab and got in. He watched Sands on the curb arguing with one of his alters. "Are you coming?"

"Shit," Sands muttered and fell into the seat beside Mort ungracefully. He just had time to pull his casted calf after him before the car pulled away from the curb. Sands glowered as he tugged the door shut after him. "El hotel Holiday Inn. Pronto."

When they arrived, Mort just looked up at the hotel in awe, unable to comprehend that they had a Holiday Inn in Mexico. He swallowed and looked at Sands getting out of the cab. "We're staying here?"

"Damned if I know," Sands replied as he paid the driver. "I just know we're meeting someone here."

"Oh..." Mort walked into the lobby, looking around at its lavish furnishings.

"C'mon, this shouldn't take long. We might be catching her in her delicates." Sands strode purposefully towards the desk, intent on giving Ajedrez the wakeup call from hell.

Mort frowned. "That is something I can live without ever seeing."

"Me too, frankly. We're looking for an Ajedrez, what room is she in?" Sands asked the attendant.

The attendant looked up at him lazily. "Room 219." He said then returned to his handheld game.

"Let's go," Sands mouthed and hobbled over to the nearest elevator.

Mort stood at the desk pouting. "Can I get a room first, and then you can go to your little meeting?"

"She won't make a pass at me if you're there, now come on!" Sands called.

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Ever thought it might do you some good to get laid?" he muttered, following Sands to the elevator.

"I'd rather not feel like I was going to break into a million pieces if I'm going to partake in something that strenuous. Gives me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe just indigestion."

"What? Break into a million pieces?"

"Huh?" Sands cocked his head. He kept an eye on the rising numbers.

"You said you were going to break into a million pieces."

"Yeah, if I screw her brains out. I'm not planning to."

"Oh...why would you have to screw her brains out if she wants to have sex?" The elevator dinged announcing the arrival to the second floor.

"You're not familiar with colloquialisms, are you?"

Mort shook his head, stepping off the elevator.

Sands limped off with a set look in his eye. "Which way?"

Mort pointed to a sign that showed rooms 201-220 were to the right. He stood quietly as Sands lipped down the hall. Sands stopped in the hallway with a bored look on his face.

"You're coming with me."

Mort shook his head firmly. "No, I'm not. She doesn't want to see me anymore than I want to see her." He shuddered and hugged himself. She gave him the willies.

"And I want to see her less than that. You owe me quite a damn lot, you know that?"

"What for?" Mort asked incredulously.

"Taking the tube out of your throat, uncuffing you quite a few times when I shouldn't have, not shooting you in the head or the heart, rolling you cigarettes, lending you lights, getting you out of Maine, do I really need to continue?"

"You almost frickin' killed me!" He cried indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Must a man's life be dedicated to one badly planned mistake? And it was partially your fault, anyway."

"_My_ fault? I didn't make you throw peanuts at me! I was trying to get away from you!"

"If I'd known you were going to choke, I would've stopped. I thought you were being a fucking prick."

"So it's my fault you decided to chuck nuts at me?" Mort threw up his hands exasperated. "I'm leaving!" He pushed the button for the elevator.

Sands cleared the distance between himself and Mort at a blazing speed. He gripped Mort's upper arm tightly to prevent any escape.

"You're going to throw me to the fucking wolves because I accidentally made you realize that life isn't fucking infinite. Wake up, you selfish bastard. You're going to die some day. We're all going to die. Now's a hell of a time to believe you're the center of the universe. You're not. You're the Man of the Year on America's Most Wanted and for all I know, I'm Number 2. Whether you like it or not, we've got to help each other get out of this shit. _Quid pro quo_. We're in fucking Acapulco. Pretend to enjoy it while we lie low and sip tequilas or whatever the fuck it is you drink. But if we're going to stay here safely, we've got to run this errand. If you're with me, it won't take five minutes. Now are you with me, or do I have to do some more convincing?" Sands somehow managed to squeeze his fingers even tighter.

Mort's eyes bugged out from the pain. "I should've let you kill yourself!" he hissed, his bug eyes clashing with Sands'.

"No shit, but it's too late for that now. How bad could it possibly be? It's not like we're going to snog or anything brutal like that."

Mort looked at him skeptically. "Sure, just wait till Armande makes his appearance. At least get me a room to retreat to?" he pleaded.

"You can't retreat because you're going to snap me out of it if I go into an episode. I don't want to kiss her any more than you want to see me kiss her."

"No, I'm not! I'm staying the hell away!"

"You're coming in! I told you this!"

"Fine but when it gets heated, I'm gone." His eyes narrowed at Sands.

"You dip, don't you listen? When it gets heated, you need to hit me or some shit like that. Don't let me, or any part of me, fall for her!"

"Why? I already told you I don't think it would be that bad for you to get laid. Might loosen you up."

"I'm not getting laid until I can fucking walk, savvy?"

Mort raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling slightly as his eyes shifted. "Sure."

"I...I beseech you. Good enough?"

Mort just chuckled, looking over Sands' shoulder. Ajedrez had slunk up behind him and wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing firmly against his back.

"You're early baby," she whispered in his ear, her tongue snaking out as she spoke.

Sands had to stop himself from physically shuddering. "Technically, I'm late."

"Well, I'm _very_ patient." She purred, her tongue snaking into his ear and trailing down his neck.

Mort just rolled his eyes. "Will you get me a room _now_?"

"No," Sands snapped before addressing Ajedrez. "Listen, you cost me a small fortune getting here. What the fuck do you want?"

"What do you think I want?" She pressed her body more firmly against his back where he could feel her every curve.

"Buy a dildo," Sands answered smartly. "Unless you already have and just don't know how to use it."

"But dildos don't have smart mouths." She licked across his jaw to his lips and gave them a sharp lick.

"Buy a Monty Python CD. It's cheaper than repaying me for this shit your trying to pull."

"Oh but I can more than afford it, and movies don't...interact." She smiled against his cheek.

"That's why you listen to the CD while you're using the dildo. If you think it'll help to boil it before hand so it feels more realistic, who am I to stop you? I'm simply refusing to be your cabana boy, if that's all fine and dandy with you. Unless you get off on screwing cripples in which case I'm going to call you a sick fuck and limp my way out of here angrily. Sound good?"

"Oh, come on. You know you want me." Her hands slid down his front to cup him. Sands jerked away, catching himself on the wall. He glared at the woman before him.

"If you really insist on doing that, I'm going to shoot you," he warned. "Be grateful I'm being civil. What do you want from me here that you couldn't get in Denver?"

"Oh there's plenty I _didn't _get in Denver." She moved towards him, her hands moving to the holsters at his hips as she crushed her lips to his and ground her hips hard against his.

Sands didn't discriminate between an attack from an armed mugger and this one by the needy Dame Bitch. He kneed her in the stomach, though he instantly regretted it. He crumpled to the floor in a daze and found he had to shake his head to clear it.

"You bastard!" She hissed, doubling over. "You're going to fucking pay for that!"

"I already have. Roughly 4 cab rides, a private jet, and hospital fees among other things," Sands growled.

She slapped him smartly against his face. Get him while he's down. "I don't care what hell you went through to get here. All that matters is you're here now." She leaned forward and pulled his lower lip into her mouth to bite down and draw blood. She smirked at him as she continued to bite on his lip.

Sands gripped her by the hair and manage to wrench her away from his chewed up lip. He couldn't quite extricate himself from her, but he could make it even clearer that he wanted no part of her.

"There is not enough marijuana or tequila in this whole damn country to make you attractive."

"Fuck!" She hissed as he yanked her hair. She kicked her leg out catching him in the sternum and stood up. She straightened her short skirt and smoothed down her hair whilst glowering down at Sands.

Sands was sucking on the coppery blood the bled freely from his lip. He felt it dribble down his chin and absently rubbed at it. He normally liked getting turned on by pain, but this woman was definitely not in his best interest.

Ajedrez looked down at him, recalling what he'd said about her being attractive. "Most men would murder to be in your spot, while you say you don't find me attractive. Well I don't think you could handle all the marijuana or tequila in Mexico before you puked your guts up or passed out. You wouldn't be able to handle it, you're too much of a fucking pussy." She spat on him,and turned on her heel, shooting Mort a glare as she strode by.

Mort pressed himself against the wall to move out of her way, and looked down at Sands with a little snort of laughter. When Sands looked up at him, he swallowed it, but was unable to hide the smirk.

"That sounds like a bet," Sands called. "Is it?"

She smirked. "Take it how you want to..." She called out continuing down the hall slowly.

"You wouldn't happen to be in the business of Tijuana Gold, would you?"

"If it floats your boat," she replied vaguely.

"I would say it does. A little taste of history. Now, are you or are you not interested in finding out if I can take your bet?"

"Do you think I would throw it out there without intentions of seeing it through?" She threw a sly smile over her shoulder as she fit her key card in her lock and pushed open the door. She looked back at him questioningly.

Mort sighed. "Can I _please_ get a room?"

"No...we'll need a referee," Sands murmured absently. "C'mon. If it's Gold, it's good."

Mort sighed and mumbled under his breath about peanuts.

"You want peanuts?" Sands cocked his head in question.

"No damn you! I want a fucking bed!" Mort scowled at him and moved past to enter the room, but was stopped by Ajedrez's hand.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then looked at Sands. "What does he think he's doing?"

"Making sure it's a fair match if he knows what's good for him."

She moved into the doorway crossing her arms over her chest. "He's not coming in here."

"Chica, I said I wasn't going to screw you. He's got nothing to watch."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're using him as an excuse. You're not _man_ enough to think you can handle yourself without him here to stop you from doing something you don't want to." She sneered at him and moved to shut the door, mumbling, "Fucking pussy."

Sands got his foot in the door like a good salesman. He loathed this bitch, but the stupid lady cop back in Maine had confiscated his last bit. Ajedrez was not allowed to dangle this in front of him and get away with it.

"You can't turn your back until you repay me!"

"Is that a bet?" She threw his words back at him. "Get rid of the hick-" She nodded her head in Mort's direction. "-and then we'll talk. Or smoke as the case may be." She gave him a sly smile and kicked his foot out of the door before shutting it in his face and turning the lock with a click.

Sands sighed and turned to Mort. At the stare he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not a junkie."

"I'm tired; I want to go to bed. Can we _please_ get a room? She won't see you now, at least with me. There's no point hanging around outside her door; she'd really be likely to call the cops."

Sands' body seemed to whine in frustration. So close!

_John Wayne's right. She's not going to be reasonable. Not at this hour. That's the price of inconvenience._

"Fuck. Fine. I'm about to fall over."

"So...we gonna get a room?"

"Didn't I just say yes?" Sands snapped.

"Well you've made no move towards the elevators," he pointed out.

"Murphy's Law. If I go downstairs with you, our room's going to be on this floor. I'm not walking much farther."

"Well I don't have any money..."

"Pay at check out."

"Oh." Mort turned and headed down the hall to the elevator and watched Sands as the door shut.

Sands was alone in the hallway and slowly trying to wrap his mind around some reasonable form of action. The mention of dopamine had sent his nerves on edge and his brain wasn't making sense.

_If you're going to be a little bitch about it, pick the lock. You know how._

"I do."

_She'll think it's sexy and you can walk all over her._

"Yeah...yeah, that'll work..."

Ajedrez's head shot up as she heard the unmistakable sound of someone picking the lock. The corners of her lips curled, and she sat down on the bed, crossing her legs seductively leaning halfway back. On her chest lay a baggie of the plant. She lay in wait till he busted into the room.

"Well?" he murmured when he noticed her all knowing smirk.

"Hm?" She cocked an eyebrow shifting allowing her skirt to hike up a bit more, exposing more of her long, smooth legs.

Sands turned away. This gave "beating women off with sticks" a new meaning.

"Just give me the damn smoking stuff."

She spoke slowly enunciating each word. "You want something I've got, and I want...well, you know what _I_ want."

"So I'm going to have to pimp myself out to get a decent joint," he stated. The ghost of pain lit his retinas in an uncomfortable red glow. Damn Tom, damn Tom, double, triple deca-damn him and his fucking doctors!

"You can't have me. Pick something else."

She shrugged her shoulders looking innocent. "There is nothing else," she said as she stuck the baggie in her bra. She stood from the bed, and moved towards him. "Now if you'll excuse me, it _is_ rather late." She held the door open for him to leave.

The glow became a flame. He walked purposefully over to Ajedrez, his jaw set tightly. Before he could think twice, he tugged the bag out. He never touched her. He stood back, to make sure she wouldn't immediately try to snog him senseless.

Her mouth dropped open a little and her eyes narrowed. She snatched for it. "Give me that!"

He almost over-balanced trying to get it out of reach, and he barely managed to stay upright.

"No. Now I'm going to consider this payment for the hell I went through getting here for no fucking reason. Hasta."

He turned around and thumped to the door.

She moved quickly and slid in between him and the door, blocking his exit. Her eyes flashed as they met his. "You're not taking all of that! That cost me two grand!" She stretched her arms out across the door so that he couldn't get past.

"So did my trip!" Sands growled.

She didn't move from her spot at the door as she spoke. She pouted. "What did you do to poor little Armande?" She said it huskily, moving to lick up his neck.

Sands pulled away, his good hand moving down to his waist for the gun. "Well, Almond ran away ages ago and you, m'dear, are going to be very sorry if you do that again."

She pulled back crossing her arms over her chest leaning against the door. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," she said pursing her lips.

"Wrong side of the hospital waiting room more like, but I'll let it slide. I'm going outside to meet my cohort. I'm taking this and hopefully, we'll put this whole messy thing behind us. Can you dig it?"

"No I most certainly can not 'dig it,'" she said, not moving.

"Don't make me shoot you. I'm not because I don't want to look like I stepped out of Night of the Living Dead, so count your blessings. Move."

"I'm not moving till you give me something. That's _my_ cache!" She made a grab for the baggie and surprisingly managed to pull it out of his grasp.

"Would you rather I give it back and make you repay all our expenses?"

She held the baggie in front of his nose. "I think we should see who can smoke the most, because I think you're full of shit."

"You just want it back so you can smoke it? What kind of a dealer are you?"

_Take it, you dumbass! Half is better than none at all!_

She tsked, trailing a finger along his jawline. "Are you making excuses _again_? Boy...you must really be worried that I can smoke more shit than you."

"You're the one that held off the first time," Sands remarked as he slapped her hand away.

"Whatever are you talking about? You snatched the whole bag from me!"

"In the hallway," Sands sneered.

"Whatever." She shook her head. "Do you or don't you want to go at it, because if not I can find more willing gentlemen that would be willing to take the dare." She smirked at her ambiguousness.

"I should smoke it all in front of you out of spite."

"You wouldn't."

"No, because this stuff seems like it the stuff to savour. But if I'm going to be trapped in here, I might as well roll a joint or two to while away the time, hm? Wait for Mort to wander in and crack you in the back of the head with the door and all? Seems like a plan to me."

Sands got out his rolling paper for lack of a better substitute and stole the baggies back. He opened it and began to roll the butt.

A smirk played on her lips as he rolled a joint. She held out her hand. "Can I have _one_ at least? Might losen me up..."

"You're no dealer, are you?" Sands murmured, taking a drag. Oh that was good. His eyes ceased to burn and his combined aches began to melt away. That's when the door opened.

**Honour Roll: midnight muse: **Okay, so this one wasn't so speedy. Whoops! But more Ajedrez so...more evilness, right?


	15. Another Cuppa

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: It's on the road again for Agent Sands and Mort Rainey. What sort of vicious demons will they have to face along the way?

**Disclaimer**: We own Ajedrez's bro. Ajedrez has a brother? Shame! The Barillos should not be breeding!

**Author's Notes: **Madness and drink and sex and…well, okay, no sex, but Ajedrez is a pain in the smeep. And WEIRD, but we knew this from the movie so it's no surprise.

**Another Cuppa**

Ajedrez's eyes grew wide, cursing as the door connected with her head with a loud _smack_, and she went careening into Sands. Her eyes rolled into her head as she moaned, "Fuck…" She subconsciously grabbed onto Sands' shirt front to keep her balance.

The force of Ajedrez and the relaxing effect of the joint had removed any tensions his muscles may have had as he tumbled to the floor with her. His unfocused eyes caught a glimpse of a baffled Hispanic in the doorway.

"Ajedrez, qué pasa?"

"What the fuck?" she asked. She first looked over to Sands, then pushed herself away from him, and looked towards the man in the doorway. She rubbed the back of her head. "Why are you here, Luis? What do you want?" she spat.

"Quiero saber por qué hay una turista en nuestra sala!" Luis snarled. _I want to know why there's a tourist in our room!_

"I can hear you, fuckmook," Sands replied, sitting up slowly.

"The monkey speaks Spanish, good choice, Ajedrez. Now we can't even talk privately!"

"_Our_ room? Have you been smoking my shit?" She fixed a glare on him, glancing at Sands to judge his reaction.

"You may have paid for it, _hermanita_, but I sleep here just as you do. Or perhaps not." He finished with a glare for Sands.

"Oh do fuck off; I never laid a finger on your precious _hermanita_. Nor do I want to. No offense to your family," Sands answered grudgingly.

"_Mi hermanita_ generally has a better head than this, with an eye on the mission." Luis seemed more subdued with Sands' statement. Ajedrez rolled her eyes.

"Get the fuck out, Luis!" She shoved him towards the door.

Luis stubbornly remained, not allowing himself to be pushed around by his sister. "Ajedrez, stop. I have every right to be here."

"No, you really _don't_," she hissed. She shoved him harder and slammed the door in his face.

Luis rolled his eyes, slid the keycard through the lock and shoved the door open again. "Ajedrez, you're being unreasonable."

"Fuck! What don't you understand about being unwelcome?" She snatched the keycard from his hand. "Now get lost!"

"No thanks, _hermanita_. I'm fine here." He closed the door and leaned against it to prevent her from opening it and shoving him out again.

She threw up her arms in frustration. "Get out of my fucking room, Luis!" she yelled. She pulled back her arm making a fist, intending to punch him.

Luis, having put up with her antics long enough during childhood, grabbed her wrists with a bored look.

"Ajedrez, he's not going to let you fuck him-"

"Here, here," Sands called, lighting up a new joint.

"-why do you need your privacy so much?" Luis finished with a faint hint of a smile. Nobody had ever refused his sister before quite like this gringo.

"Ugh! Because you're annoying! Now leave!" She gave him a petulant look, and then turned to glare at Sands. "You had no objections about fucking me the other night."

"Because it wasn't me. Duh," Sands snorted as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"If you don't kick him out, he'll smoke half the bag." She nodded her head toward the weed.

"Why'd you give it to him then?" Luis asked incredulously.

"I'm talking to _him_ you idiot!" she hissed at Luis. She turned to Sands giving him a pointed look. She knew he wanted the marijuana bad.

But Luis had already ruined the effect. Sands shook his foggy head and stuck his tongue out at Ajedrez. "You're a rotten liar, you know that?"

She was seething. She snatched the bag of weed out of Sands' hands and held it in front of Luis. Then she strolled over to the balcony and dangled it over the edge.

"Father's going to kill you," Luis hissed. "Favorite or not, he's not going to let you get away with losing that!"

Sands hobbled after Ajedrez, a set look on his face. "You let that go, I won't let Daddy have the pleasure. I'll kill you myself."

She rolled her eyes melodramatically. "No one's going to _kill_ me." With that she dropped the baggie off the balcony, and gave the two men and gave them a menacing smile.

Sands drew his gun with a quickness that wasn't tainted by marijuana. His arm wrapped around her throat and she shoved the gun against her temple. "You don't know me very well, do you?"

"Pandejo! You do not kill my sister!" Luis roared.

"She fucked me over one too many times, haven't you princess?" Sands growled into her ear.

Ajedrez smirked. "Actually we _haven't_ fucked."

He jabbed the gun harder into her temple. "You're playing the wrong person."

"Couldn't agree more," Luis growled. He stomped hard on Sands' foot and punched Sands in the stomach as he was backing away.

"Luis!" she cried as the gun came away from her head. "You fucking idiot!" She turned to Sands. "Are you ok?"

"He was going to kill you!"

"You just wish I was," Sands wheezed.

She glared at Luis. "Get out! Get the fuck out!" She turned back to Sands, mumbling, "Fucking family. Are you ok?" She asked again, irritated that he was ignoring her. Fighting with him she at least had his attention.

Luis sighed. His sister had horrible taste in men and she never seemed to learn. Countless suitors had made this more than obvious. He strode over to the huddled people, shoved Ajedrez back and picked Sands up bodily. He ignored her physical assault and Sands' weakened protests to dump him outside the room. "And stay the fuck out, pandejo!" he cried before closing the door behind him.

Ajedrez's mouth dropped open in a scowl. "Godammit Luis! You piece of shit!" She hissed, jumping at him. She slapped him hard across the face to the point that he saw stars, then strode to the door and flung it open to go after Sands.

Sands was still sitting dazedly on the floor, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Seeing Ajedrez was enough to snap him out of his funk. He withdrew a new penknife he'd thought to replace when he realized his old one was gone.

"Are you just exceptionally stupid or do you have a fucking death wish, bitch?" he snarled.

Luis glared at Sands even as he picked up his feisty sister and dragged her into the room. "Get the fuck out of here!"

Sands didn't wait for the door to slam closed. He wanted out of the hotel, out of Mexico, whatever was easier. Nothing was worth this aggravation. He thought Luis had torn his stitches when he tossed him out. He made a beeline for the elevators, hoping he'd meet Mort or someone about as friendly.

The elevator doors opened, and Mort stood there with brochures and a half eaten apple. He took a bite and looked up from the brochure he was reading. He quirked an eyebrow at Sands. "Wha happen'?" he asked through his bite of apple.

"I don't really know..." Sands blinked. "Where's the room?"

Mort shrugged and handed Sands the half-eaten apple as he dug through his pocket for the keycards that had the room number on them. He handed the cards to Sands and grabbed his apple back, munching away.

"257? 257's a horrible number," Sands eyed Mort with a half grin.

Mort shrugged again, giving him a wry look. "Sorry," he mumbled, trudging down the hallway towards their room.

"Golly, you must be especially tired if you don't even have the heart to yell at me."

"You didn't get laid did you?" he muttered waiting for Sands at the door.

"Told you I wouldn't. But it wasn't for lack of trying," Sands murmured. He unlocked the door and allowed Mort to enter first before slipping inside himself.

Mort looked at him incredulously. "You actually _tried_?"

"Hell no. But she sure did." Sands flopped onto the couch and instantly closed his eyes to better ignore the throbbing.

"Oh. Well why didn't you let her?"

"Because she's a whore. I like my sex to mean something more than exercise. I need a reason to stick around in the morning," Sands snorted.

Mort snorted. "Like you would," he said under his breath.

"Probably not," Sands yawned. "You goin' to bed, John Wayne?"

Mort grunted as he took off his shirt and slid between the sheets on one of the beds.

"Good man. Sweet dreams, pilgrim."

"Go get laid," he muttered into his pillow.

"Shut up and go to sleep."

"Sure thing boss..." he murmured as he fell asleep.

Sands listened as Mort dosed off and felt himself soon follow into the pool of monsters and shadows.

XXX

Sands woke up feeling like his skin was going to peel away from his body at any given moment. His eyes were about to be pressed to jelly in his skull and the top of his head was going to pop off. Perhaps not one of the better night's sleeps he'd ever had. Short of smoking his entire pouch of tobacco, he didn't think there would be much to take his mind off the discomfort. The clock said otherwise; it was now 4 P.M., Acapulco time, which meant it was roughly 5 or 6 P.M. in Washington. The perfect time to drink, in Sands' humble opinion.

"Mort!" he called into the bedroom.

Mort jerked awake. "Huh? Wha?" He called looking around disoriented.

"Bar. You coming?"

Mort rubbed his eyes and stumbled into the other room. "You're going to a bar?" he yawned.

"Need alcohol. Again, are you coming?" He awkwardly pushed himself off the couch. Having not disrobed the night before, Sands found he was ready to up and go after a mouthful of water and some Tylenol.

"Yeah, lemme get my shirt." Mort went back in the bedroom and grabbed his shirt, pulling it over his head and joining Sands back in the living area to leave.

"Remind me to find a cane somewhere down there. I don't think I'm going to make it back up here totally under my own power. I'm going to get wasted tonight," Sands announced. "Lead on, Morton."

Mort cocked an eyebrow as he opened the door. "Is there a _reason_ for your getting wasted?"

"What reason do I need? I've been hit on, beat up, shot at, stabbed at, thrown out of a room, robbed of a smoke, and insulted. I think I've been very sporting about the whole thing, wouldn't you agree?"

Mort shook his head from side to side and then nodded. "Good enough for me, I suppose."

"Good, come on." Sands limped down the hall to the elevator with an impatient air.

"Did you already call a cab?"

"All hotels have bars. We're staying close to home. I want you to be able to peel me off the floor and drag me back to our room when I'm finished."

"Oh," Mort said, feeling dumb. He pushed the button for the elevator.

Sands was the first through the sliding doors, unwilling to talk anymore. He was staving off the bugs crawling beneath his skin.

"Anxious are we?" Mort smirked.

"No shit," Sands murmured as he punched a button.

Mort chuckled as he watched Sands' foot tap impatiently as they waited for the elevator to reach the lobby. When it did, Sands was once again first off and hobbling towards the bar. Mort followed behind, limping at a more relaxed pace.

"Well, aren't you two quite the pair," the Mexican bartender smirked. At Sands glare, he hastily rearranged his features to a more amicable grin. "What can I get you?"

"Tequila," Sands replied.

"I want a shot of Jack Daniels," Mort piped up as he slid onto a barstool next to Sands.

"You ever get anything different, John Wayne?" Sands asked after taking a tentative sip. Yeah, that was good stuff.

Mort shrugged, "Never really fancied anything else." He took a swig, then nodded to the tequila in Sands' hand. "That stuff good?"

"If you don't mind liquid fire sliding down your throat. This stuff's better than most."

Mort nodded, and bit his lip. "Can I try?"

Sands swirled the last of the tequila around in his tumbler and shrugged. "Sure. No backwash." He slid the glass over in front of Mort absently, thankful he no longer felt maddeningly itchy.

Mort looked into the glass skeptically. He picked it up and tossed it back closing his eyes. He opened his eyes and shook his head, making a face. "Wow," he gasped.

"Good," Sands grinned. "It's supposed to do that."

Mort coughed a little. "Yeah...well that's not the type of kick I was expecting..."

"It's different than whisky, I'll give you that. An acquired taste. Barkeep, another tequila."

Mort nodded at the bartender and held up two fingers. "I'll give it a go," he said, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose.

Sands eyed Mort. "Thinking of taking me in a drinking contest?"

Mort grinned and grabbed his shot of tequila and turned to face Sands as he grabbed his. "You game?"

Sands downed the contents of his second drink with a lazy smile. "Sure, if you think you'll enjoy the morning breath."

Mort slowly chugged his shot, grimacing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Another?"

"Did I or did I not say the word 'wasted' somewhere in our conversation?"

"Exactly how much is 'wasted'?" Mort asked.

"Eyes crossed, can't get off the floor, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. The works."

Mort nodded. "Ok, let's do it!" He lifted another shot of tequila.

"You heard the man. Lots of tequila," Sands called.

They were on their sixth or seventh round, and Mort was laughing so hard that he was nearly falling off the barstool. Ajedrez strolled into the bar casually and slid onto a stool a scant two down from where Sands sat. She ordered a margarita and fixed her eyes straight ahead as she glanced at the two men-or rather one _man_-out of the corner of her eyes.

Sands never saw her come in, being more than a little inebriated himself. "Stay up here, pilgrim, you're gonna get all dusty and nasty and hog the shower all night if you fall over." He grabbed Mort by the collar to right him on the seat, laughing the entire time.

Mort laughed louder. "Is this what they teach you in the CIA?" he asked, laughing that much harder.

As Ajedrez sipped on her margarita, her ears perked up at that. She swiveled on the barstool to face in Sands' direction. "You're CIA?" she asked incredulously. They wouldn't possibly take nutcases like him would they?

"CIA? Hell yeah, Cheese Incarnates Anonymous! Hold your alcohol with your dairy products," Sands sniggered. "And what's it to you, young missy?" He spun around in his seat to try and face the woman only to almost fall off the chair.

She automatically moved forward to help him back on to his seat as a reflex. She rolled her eyes. "Just...interesting is all...similar careers," she smirked.

"Ugh, not the Fucking Boondoggle Idiots," Sands groaned. "I hates those dumbfucks."

"What? Are you ok?" Her brow creased as she slapped his cheek lightly. "I think you've been drinking a bit too much..." She chuckled and glanced at Mort whose eyes were bloodshot.

"Not nearly enough. You can't possibly be FBI, you'd've slugged me by now. So...who are you?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I never said anything about being FBI!" The corners of her lips curved slightly at the fact that he wasn't being so resistant to her presence now, even though she knew that was in part due to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed.

"No, but you did say similar careers. That...in my mind..." He coughed. "Says Fucking Boondoggle Idiots. Correct me if I'm wrong, please. Yeah, please don't. I'm...I'm right. That's it."

She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of her margarita. "Sure," she said.

"Tell me...what...is a pretty little thing like you doing in this pit of a country?" Sands asked idly as he downed another drink.

She turned and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Ok...I know you're fucked up now," she muttered. "I'm here for...a little fun."

"I am not fucked up. I haven't been for...awhile now. At least since I met him," he jabbed a finger behind him at Mort. "John Wayne, when'd I meet you? How long ago?"

"Dunno." Mort slurred. "Was long timmego."

"Before cow jump over moon and lemming fell off cliff and land was untainted by white man stench," Sands laughed.

"Don't you guys think you're done?" the bartender asked sternly.

"Fuck no, I'm not on the floor yet," he snapped.

Ajedrez stood and took Sands' arm. "If you want to be on the floor I've got some more tequila," she offered, pulling his arm around her shoulders as she helped him to his feet. She didn't press close though, not wanting to push him away. She found the whole idea that he was Central Intelligence quite intriguing.

"Is it free?"

"Yeah, generally when someone offers you a drink it is," she remarked with a smirk. She glanced over at Mort. "You think your friend can make it back to your room? I think he's had more than enough." She chuckled as she watched Mort fall off his chair laughing at something or other.

"Aw, hell. Mort! Morton! Mortimer! Whatever your name is! Up! UP!" Sands jabbed at Mort with the toe of his boot.

Mort leapt into the air spinning around precariously. "Wha? Wha? Put em up!" He looked at Sands. "Whaddya want?" He frowned. "Did I win?"

"Win what?" Sands cocked his head.

"Drinking contest?"

"Well, sir, I'm still upright so I think I win by default."

Mort scratched his head. "I thought we were trying to see who could get on the floor cross-eyed first?"

"You haven't been in too many drinking contests, have you, boyo?" Sands sniggered. The stool began to lean forward and he had to pinwheel to keep standing.

"Whoa! Easy there cowboy." Ajedrez slipped under his arm supporting some of his weight. "Come on." She started to lead him out of the bar.

"Wait! Need Mortimer! Mortimer, 'mere, dammit!" Sands strugged weakly against Ajedrez's sure hand.

"Wha?" Mort asked irritably.

"I think we're leaving," Sands called.

"Don' think I was invited." He stumbled to his feet, and sat on the very edge of the barstool. "Gimme another!" Mort hollered to the bartender waving his hand around wildly.

"No, I'm not getting girl cooties alone!" Sands tore himself out of her grasp and fell to the floor with a thump. He began crawling over to Mort, intending to make him follow. "C'mon, there's more-_Hic!_-tequila!"

Mort spun around on the stool and promptly fell on Sands' back. "Where?" he asked.

Ajedrez watched the two and rubbed her forehead. What was she doing? She shook her head and spoke to them. "Come on boys, there's more upstairs."

"There!" Sands pointed at Ajedrez.

Mort nodded and pushed up on Sands, grabbing the barstool to pull himself to his feet. Sands grunted and slowly followed Mort up the stool.

"Think it'll be worth it? The tequila?"

Mort grunted and nodded his head looking Ajedrez over. "She look safe to you?" he mumbled.

"I dunno. She familiar?"

"A lil bit."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"How the hell should I know?" Mort glowered.

"Nuh, uh, _no_ mean drunks! Mean drunks go outside!" Sands punched Mort on the shoulder.

"Fine!" Mort stumbled out of the bar.

Ajedrez cocked an eyebrow. "You still wanting _more_?"

"More? More what?" Sands frowned.

"Tequila, weed, shit, whatever?" She rolled her eyes.

"Uh...sure. Why not," he smiled.

She looked at him warily. "Okay...do you need me to help you walk?" She studied him hanging on to the barstool.

Sands took an awkward step and wound up grabbing Ajedrez by the collar. "I don't think that's a bad idea, no..."

"Okay," she choked out, removing his death grip from her collar and pulling his arm around her shoulders. She was once again supporting much of his weight. "You ready to try to move?"

"I wouldn't call it moving so much as stumbling and a half hearted attempt at going from point A to point B, but whatever floats your boat, you go with, savvy? Don't let anybody...tell you...otherwise."

"Mm. Okay. Well, come on then, cowboy." She led him from the bar slowly. They made it to the elevator and she pushed the button. As they waited for it to arrive she glanced up at him with a small frown. "You feelin' alright there?"

"A little sick, a little weepy, a little vomitty. I'll be okay if I find a nice porcelain bowl to hug pretty soon."

"We're getting there..." she said moving them into the elevator, and leaning against the back with his arm still around her for support. She watched the numbers click by and when they arrived on their floor, she helped him down the hall and into her room. Luis, by sheer luck, was gone. She kicked the door shut behind them and sat him down on her bed. "Okay, what do you want first? Tequila, weed, sex, or the toilet?" she asked with a smirk.

"Ah..." Sands looked to be in deep concentration. It didn't take him long to come to a decision. The combination of stale marijuana fumes, just enough liquour and stress from the past few days was coming to a head. His stomach heaved and he had to catch himself on the edge of the bed before he toppled off. "Bathroom," he ground out.

"Ok, ok! Just hold it a minute buddy!" She slipped under his arm so she could help him into the bathroom. She then placed his hand on the counter so he could support himself and slid out from under his arm so as not to be puked on.

Sands wasn't in the frame of mind to be modest. His protesting stomach needed to empty its contents before it got severe alcohol poisoning. In retrospect, Sands thought he probably should have sent for some room service before his romp to the bar. He coughed as the last bit dribbled out and wondered how he was going to get back upright. Or if he'd be getting a complementary teeth cleaning.

Ajedrez's nose wrinkled in disgust and she turned away until she heard his retching cease. She turned back and moved back into the bathroom. "You wanna move to the bed?" she asked.

He nodded slowly, trying not to incite another episode.

"Alright." She moved behind him and bit her lip, circling him to figure out the best way to help him up. "Do you think you can get to your feet at least?"

Sands managed to get one knee under him, but his twingeing fibula wasn't going to take much more abuse. He wouldn't be able to get up unless he dragged himself upright. He wasn't quite so desperate as to have to wrap his sweaty hands around a stomach acid slicked toilet bowl.

"No," he croaked.

She reached under his arms and jerked him upright. "Shit!" she hissed. Once she got him up enough, she slipped under his arm, causing her knees to nearly buckle as he was barely able to support himself. "Okay, cowboy, I'm gonna need you to cooperate here-suck it up and take some of your weight off me; otherwise, we're both gonna go down."

"Don't fucking remind me," he whispered. The toilet bowl swam into Sands vision, causing him to buck backwards. His back slammed into the wall with a grunt.

She gasped as she too was slammed hard into the wall. "Ungh. Come on let's get to bed before you kill us," she ground out. She was able to move him out of the bathroom at least, and managed to stumble to the bed. They more fell onto it than anything, their limbs tangled together. Ajedrez lay, breathing heavily, with his arm laying limply across her chest. She shoved it uselessly. "Would you _move_?" She grunted as she pushed at the limbs that were entwined with hers.

Sands groaned, more concerned with falling asleep than disentangling himself from someone else. Why'd he even wake up in the first place?

"Ugh! Fine." She sighed agitatedly, and allowed herself to relax. It wasn't all that bad really. His body was warm at least. She shifted under his arm to a more comfortable position and closed her eyes.

When the girl under his arm stopped shifting and moving, the bed began to feel more welcoming and pleasant. His eyes drifted closed and his body settled into an uncomfortable but quiet sleep.

Ajedrez shivered as a chill fell over the room. She slid closer to Sands, her side pressed against his and absorbing his body heat. She sighed contentedly as her head fell on his shoulder.

Sands never moved once during the entire night. It was the dry mouth and the headache that eventually drove him to wakefullness with a moan. He felt the heat of another body beside him and couldn't recall who it could possibly be. It was too feminine to be Mort; and judging by how he felt, it was entirely possible he got lucky at the bar. He slitted his eyes open to check and had to suppress a startled cry.

It was Ajedrez. Dame Bitch. He was in her room. He'd gotten so hammered, he couldn't even tell the horny toad from any other broad in the room. He couldn't remember what had happened last night and could only pray he hadn't done anything stupid. Oh fuck. He wouldn't be able crawl out of her arms without waking her.

_This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end, my only friend, the end..._

Ajedrez stirred and let out a little moan in her sleep. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him with a groggy smirk. "Mornin' cowboy." She greeted him hoarsely, making no move to get away from him. It was much too comfortable.

Sands felt his stomach contract. She was awfully content for someone who'd tried to ruin him so many times before. That could only mean she'd gotten what she wanted.

"Oh fuck."

Ajedrez's eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him with a grin. "No, actually we didn't." She murmured with a sleepy sigh.

Sands frowned. "No?"

She looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow. Was he disappointed they hadn't? "No," she confirmed.

"Quizas me querrias a fijar esto," Sands replied before his eyes widened in shock. He'd just said "Maybe you would like me to fix that." Or, not him exactly. "No, I didn't mean it!"

Ajedrez smirked and moved closer. "How do propose going about that?" she inquired, ignoring Sand's comment. She slid her arm across his chest over his arm that was across hers.

"No! I don't want to fix anything! Get the hell away from me!" Sands scrambled off the bed and fell to the floor. "I'll not be seeing you anymore if I've got a say in it. I don't give a damn about your fucking cops or your fucking grass! Just leave me the fuck alone!"

Ajedrez pouted as she propped her head up on her hand looking down at him on the floor. She shrugged her shoulders. "Fine, go. I don't suppose the CIA would be too happy to hear where you're at and what you're doing though..." She murmured, almost as if to herself.

"Well, I don't think I'm in good standing with the Company anyway, so I don't think I'm particularly worried by that threat either," Sands snapped, gaining his footing slowly.

She sighed irritably, "Well hell that's the last time I try to help anyone."

"Whadduya mean, 'help?' You tried to take advantage of me!"

"The hell I did!" She sat up, her eyes flashing. "You were piss ass drunk and I helped you up here and into bed. Not with me, but you kind of pulled me down and as you can tell you're a bit larger than me!" She spat seething. How dare he accuse her of anything! She'd done _nothing_!

"Why were you in a position to get me into your room? Why are you stalking me?"

"Stalking you! I went down to the bar to have a fucking drink!" She stood up nearly eye to eye with him. "You were literally falling off of the stool."

"Maybe I wanted to," he hissed.

"Well, excuse me then! Next time I'll let you make an ass of yourself and stand back and laugh." She moved closer to him with her hands on her hips and her lips pursed.

"Why do you care?"

"Who said I did?" Her face was in his; she was fuming.

"You would have left me downstairs if you didn't," he muttered.

She didn't say anything just leaned in and kissed him hard.

"Christ on a cracker!" Sands swore and pushed her away. "I'm going back to my room. Keep whatever I leave here, I'm not going to want it anymore."

"Shit!" She cursed as she fell backwards hitting her head on the nightstand and everything spun. "Fuck! Is there something wrong with you?" she muttered before everything faded to black.

"Yeah, you," he muttered. He was wondering if he should leave her unconscious on the floor, but he was not one to totally forget favors. Even when it would be in his best interest to walk away. He hated debts. He nudged her with his foot, trying to get a rise out of her. "C'mon, get up."

She was out cold, a knot forming at the base of her skull where there was a good sized gash. Her long hair was getting matted by the blood that was seeping from the wound.

He wanted to slug her for doing this to him. He wanted to beat her for putting him in this position. He didn't pretend it was because he was a nice guy that he held back. He detested cheap shots.

A rummage through the bathroom yielded just about everything he could want by way of first aid. He would have to improvise, but it didn't matter much. So long as she lived to tell he wasn't a total ass and that she was simply a whore who got hooked on the wrong man.

He began to clean the cut slowly, while she was still passed out. Head wounds tended to bleed worse than others, so he wasn't overly worried by the blood leaking into the carpet. He just had to stop it soon. A few stitches and she'd be-unfortunately-good as new.

She hissed as she felt something burning on her head. Her eyes remained squeezed shut though as if she were afraid to open them to see what had happened.

"Easy, Sunshine, I'm almost done," Sands murmured as he set to make one last stitch.

She winced and opened her eyes and looked up at him earnestly. "Sunshine?" she asked with a slight smile.

"Would you prefer 'sugarbutt?' "

"Sunshine's nice." She slurred slightly as she looked up into his eyes. "Thank you."

"Right. You keep thinking that, Sunshine."

She just stared up at him in a daze, smiling softly.

He frowned, wondering what was wrong with her. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah...one hell of a headache but other than that I'm fine." She gave a dazzling smile. "And you? How are you feeling?"

"Uh...peachy, I guess. Look me in the eye for a minute, chica."

She looked into his eyes and gave him a crooked grin. "You've got really nice eyes," she mused aloud.

"Thanks," he mumbled, trying hard to concentrate on the pupils of her eyes. They looked fine, no evidence of concussion. Which didn't exactly explain the personality change to his satisfaction.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is something wrong with my eyes?" She struggled to sit up.

"In truth, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your eyes. It's rather astounding, I must admit. Tell me, are you always this...charming?"

"That's good then right?" She frowned. "I'd like to think I'm a nice person..." she murmured thoughtfully, sitting up to face him with a wince. She touched the back of her head tentatively.

"Try not to pop those. I'm not sure how hospitable I'll be in the not too distant future," Sands muttered.

"Why wouldn't _you_ be nice?" she asked.

"You don't know?"

"Don't know what? Did I do something to offend you or something?" She scratched her head. Perhaps she'd hit it harder than she thought.

"You really don't know, and you've got no sign of a concussion. Curious." His mind was on fast forward. It looked like amnesia, but did amnesia cause mood swings? He wondered if he had been absent the day they learned about amnesia. "Do you not remember anything? Or just...certain things. Like dealings with me for example."

"I remember bringing you up from the bar last night and how you were drunk...and then..." She frowned. "I fell, I think?" She looked at him questioningly.

"You fell," Sands nodded. Okay, perhaps not amnesia. And that left an option he wasn't entirely fond of. "And assuming I was as shitfaced drunk as I feel, I probably didn't have the pleasure of meeting you. Who are you?"

"Excuse me?" She looked at him blankly. "We met several days ago."

"We did?" he asked evenly. Now he was supremely confused.

"Yes...on the plane in Denver. Do _you_ remember?"

"Then I guess I don't. Terrible memory, you see," he replied guardedly.

"Oh...right." She nodded as if she understood, then extended her hand. "Ajedrez," she said with a small smile.

"Sands," he grasped her hand with an awkward grin of his own. Maybe it was a fluke. She hit her head some other time.

_Schizo..._

"No, stop it," Sands groaned.

She frowned, looking at him concerned. "I didn't do anything. Are you alright?"

"No...not you. Memory." He shook his head. "Listen, I think I'd better get back to my room. Fantastic meeting you though. Really...swell."

She smiled up at him uneasily. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Nope. Haven't been in over a week. And you, pretty _pájaro_ that you are, are partially to blame. No offense, meant, but if I don't freak out soon, I think I'm just going to spontaneously combust," he smiled tightly.

"I'm sorry..." She murmured genuinely apologetic. "I don't want you to freak out and I certainly don't want you to spontaneously combust." She stuck out her hand. "Help me up?"

Sands groaned and steadied himself against the bed with his hip. He extended his good hand with a frown. "Just don't pull me down with you and try to screw me, alright? I've had more than enough of that."

She looked at him disgusted. "I wouldn't 'screw' you. Why have you done that so much if you dislike it all that much?" she asked, puzzled.

"Aha, see, there's the problem. Wasn't me." Sands laughed harshly, even as he tugged her upright.

She gasped as she shot up and into his arms. She pulled back and looked down her face flushing. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Yeah, thanks. I...I'm going to crash. In my room. If it's all the same to you."

She nodded slowly. "Okay." She looked up at him. "Will I see you again?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Que será, será."

"Oh." She sighed almost wistfully. "I'd like to if...that's ok with you?" She looked up at him questioningly.

"Perhaps. If you're...good," he answered awkwardly.

She laughed. "Have I been anything but?" She reached out and touched his arm. "It's been nice..." she said slowly.

He worked hard not to shy away. "Right. Nice. So, before it gets even more bizarre, I'm just going to go now."

Her brow puckered. "What do you mean more bizarre?" She had no idea what he was talking about.

"I'll write you a book about it someday," Sands muttered, turning around and maneuvering towards the door.

She followed him to the door and gave him a soft smile. "I hope you have a good day, Sands," she said.

"You too," Sands nodded shortly and slid out the door. He leaned against the wall to slowly and calmly collect himself before tackling his own room. Ajedrez was freaking _weird_. He spotted Luis coming down the hall looking as sharp and jaunty as Sands had last seen him.

"What are you doing outside our room?" he snapped.

"Your sister is fucking insane. Keep an eye on her," Sands replied, passing him without a backwards glance. Luis rolled his eyes as he entered his room.

Mort had somehow made it to their room and passed out on the bed half on and half off. He was in a deep sleep and snoring loudly when Sands came in. Sands ignored Mort, more concerned with his mental health than ever.

_I wouldn't worry. If she's got issues, they're hers to deal with._

"You never fucking worry. That's not your fucking job."

_Nope, it's not. It's someone else's. Not that I'm complaining._

"Just shut up. This is too damn unreal."

Mort grunted and rolled to the middle of the bed. "Umphf. Who's there?" he muttered groggily, not quite waking.

"Me. Go back to bed, Mort."

"Me? Me? Ahhh!" He sat up, pulling at his hair with one of his arms wrapped around neck.

"John Wayne, you been smoking crack _again_?" Sands stuck his head into the bedroom with an amused look.

Mort frowned and looked down at the arm that was nearly strangling him, and let it fall limp to his side with a wince as it pulled at his shoulder. "Where'd you go?" he mumbled, rubbing his bloodshot eyes wearily.

"To see an old friend, where else?"

Mort scratched his head and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "You have friends?"

"I had a few. Don't know anymore. Don't really care either, to be perfectly honest."

"Oh...right." Mort frowned remembering Tom. He groaned as he stood up and stretched. "Is there a coffee pot in here?"

"I'd ring room service. I wouldn't trust hotel appliances farther than I could throw them."

Mort nodded. "So you'll ring 'em? I don't know how to. Don't usually stay in places this nice." He looked around their room.

"Nice? Hardly. Where's the phone?"

Mort nodded his head towards one of the nightstands. Sands wasn't more than a minute on the phone, having been used to camping out in hotels before.

"I'm going back to bed. Living's wearing me out. The door knocks, answer it."

Mort nodded and settled into a chair in the living room to wait. He wondered what exactly had happened. Sands didn't seem angry enough to have actually slept with Ajedrez, but he didn't think she'd have let him out of it staying the night. He shrugged his shoulders: not his problem.

XXX

"Ajedrez, why do you toy with him?" Luis sighed as he dropped his bag to the floor. They were finally alone in their hotel room and Ajedrez was being reasonably sane for once.

"Toy with him? Luis, what are you talking about?" She frowned as he set his bags down. "Are you staying here with me?"

"What do you mean 'stay here with you'? Ajedrez, don't play games with me. I've lived with you too long."

"Yes, but this isn't _home_." Her brow furrowed. "Why are you here? I don't want you to be here," she said softly. "Will you please get your own room?"

"We're going home when we rendezvous with Father's associate. We already lost part of the order, thanks to you," Luis remarked sourly. "You'd better hope Father forgives you. And you know I can't get my own room."

"I didn't lose it! It was _your_ fault! And why _can't_ you get your own room?"

"You're the one who threw it out the window, _hermanita_, not me. And I can't get a room because Father wants me to keep an eye on you, remember? You're the favorite."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, moving to her duffel bag and removing several more baggies. "Look, I've got plenty more, see?" She smiled at him. "I'm always prepared, mi hermano."

"_Hermanita_, we're still one bag short. Unless you planned ahead and stole an extra one for your personal use," Luis raised an eyebrow.

"I told you I plan ahead." She withdrew another bag from her purse.

"Father will still be angry with you for stealing."

"I didn't steal, I borrowed," she said with a grin.

"And how are you going replace it, Ajedrez? Someone's going to recognize if he's selling inferior product and complain. Then we'll get in trouble anyway."

"Do you not listen to yourself Luis? I'm father's favorite; there's no need to worry." She gave him an easy smile and tossed the baggies of marijuana at him.

"I hope so, _hermanita_. What are you going to do about that man you fancy? Continue to play with him until he bites back or let him go back to where he belongs?"

"Play with him? I'm not playing with him. I find him a nice handsome man is all. He's somewhat of a gentleman as well." She lifted her hair wincing slightly to show him the stitches. "He helped me when I fell."

"I bet he only helped you because he thought you were mentally ill," Luis grinned slyly. "You know he hates your guts."

She frowned. "Why would he hate my guts? I've done nothing to him! He certainly didn't act like he hated my guts." She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. Ajedrez whirled around and plopped on the bed with a sigh.

"You mean he enjoys the radical moodswings you have and the sudden lust for manflesh under the guise of the name Kandi? He must be a tolerant man," Luis snorted.

"You understand nothing, Luis," she sighed. "I don't use the name Kandi."

"You do. You're just too stubborn to admit it, _hermanita_. But I love you anyway."

"Well that's good to know!" she laughed.

Luis hugged her close and planted a kiss atop her head. "Don't hurt him too much, ok, _hermanita_? I've seen you ruin too many men that way and this one looks like he could do something about it."

"I wouldn't hurt him!" she protested. "What do you think he would do though if I did?" she asked thoughtfully, thinking about it herself.

"Kill you?" Luis shrugged.

Her nose wrinkled. "Naw. He wouldn't kill me."

"If you pulled that _puta madre_ thing on him again, I wouldn't doubt it." Luis deposited his jacket on a nearby chair and went into his room. It had been an eventful night.

"What puta madre thing?" she asked. "I did no such thing!"

"Come off it, _hermanita_. What may work for you may not work for him. Give it a rest, it's been a long night."

She shook her head with a sigh. "Get some sleep, mi hermano." She patted the top of his head and slid past him to the bathroom.

**Honour Roll: Merrie: **I hope the killer peanut went down easily enough. No more House, no twins until future installments, no Ajedrez revenge until future installments and not so many personalities running around this chapter. Bummer, huh? **midnightmuse: **Not quite evil, but lots of muddle and confusion. That work?


	16. Lost in the Supermarket

**Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind**

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

**Rating**: R

**Summary**: It's on the road again for Agent Sands and Mort Rainey. What sort of vicious demons will they have to face along the way?

**Disclaimer**: We own Stephanie. And...Tom. And...that's it.

**Author's Notes: **You kind readers (after you forgive us for the hiatus and the lackluster editing) can all thank Stephanie for being such a lovely plot device. Applause welcome. -claps politely-

**Lost in the Supermarket**

Sands leaned over Mort's sleeping form, trying hard not to fall on top of him. He poked Mort in the shoulder. "Hey, Mort. Wake up."

"Whaddya want?" Mort asked into the pillow.

"Get up. We're leaving."

"Wha? Why?" He lifted his head and looked around the room groggily.

"We've overstayed our welcome. And I'm kind of tired of being confused."

"Wasn't Dr. House supposed to help with that?" Mort groaned as he stood and stretched.

"Dr. House is a Grade A fuck up. Now come on. I booked us a flight out of here to Seattle."

"Seattle? Why're we going there?"

"Because I haven't been there before."

"Oh..." He shrugged and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth get the nasty taste out of his mouth.

"And the best part is that I don't have to see that creepy bitch ever again," Sands whispered.

_Dame bitch,_ someone yawned.

XXX

Tom grunted as he sat up on the side of the hospital bed finally able to get the hell out. "Is my cab here?" He asked the orderly grumpily. He'd been there for over 2 weeks now.

"I think so, but I wasn't in charge of that, so I wouldn't know," Merrie shrugged falling in step with Tom and the orderly. After Sara, she'd made it her job to keep tabs on Tom.

"It better be there," he grumbled. He looked at Merrie as she walked beside him. "I want to thank you for all your help."

"Don't worry about it." Merrie smiled slightly. He'd been difficult, but he'd been a good egg on the whole. She could see why Sara had liked him.

When they reached the sliding glass doors and there was no cab, he turned around, fuming, ready to cuss any and everyone out. "Where the hell is my cab?" he hissed.

"Because you're coming with me," a feminine voice called.

Tom whirled, wincing as his wounds pulled. He glared at the woman standing in the doorway of the hospital. "Hello, Nicole," he muttered, with an edge to his voice.

"Irritable already? You haven't even left the hospital." Nicole approached Tom with a sure step, following his voice. "The company wants to talk to you, find out what happened. They sent me because I'm such a wonderful messenger girl." That wasn't entirely true; it had really been that the whole mission had been botched and she'd been dumb enough to be caught waving her gun around like a newbie. But she wasn't going to tell Tom that.

Tom snorted. "Riiight. What, they don't believe you? Well, let me tell you. I can answer about as much as you can as I was unconscious."

"You know Sands better than I do, Tom. Besides, I wanted to talk to you first."

"Ah...it comes out." He replied with a smirk. "So...can we talk on the way to wherever it is we're going?" He scanned the drive behind her for a vehicle.

"Well, the Company figured that you might be a bit annoyed and said 'Convince him any way you can.' I got a limo," she responded lazily.

Tom nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Nice." Upon seeing the limo, he emitted a low whistle, and held the door open for DB before sliding in behind her. "Ok, so say again _why_ they want to hear my side?"

"I couldn't tell you. Guilt, maybe? If he's anything like the stories, I think the Company may have dropped the ball on this guy."

"_What_ are you talking about?" His brow creased as he listened to her.

"Well, here's the story as I've heard it. Sands freaked right out, shot you. Mort distracted him as Tokey called 911. He stabbed Tokey. He went after Mort again and I shot him. That's when the cops showed up. And I'm not so sure about you, but I'm fairly certain friends don't shoot each other. Sands seems to have shown himself capable of trying it, if not totally successful. I don't think the Company should have accepted him," Dangerbabe admitted.

Tom shrugged. "I wouldn't know all those events as I was drowning in my blood. That's what I recall after being shot and Mort stabbing him...As for Sands being accepted into the company, he's a damn good agent and you know it. Well..." He frowned. "He was."

"So this insanity is a recent development," DB answered incredulously.

He shrugged. "As far as I know. Probably has something to do with that doctor..."

"If I wanted to be cute, I'd say it was Mr. Rainey's bad influence. I think it more than likely would have been the stress instead."

"What stress?"

"Think about it Tom. It was his first big assignment all by himself. Who wouldn't be nervous? I think it just got to him. What else happened when you first saw him?"

He shrugged. "He had this lady cop after him...and a fat one."

"Is that it?"

"That I can remember. He was in the hospital, had to spring him."

"Why was he in the hospital?"

"Dunno...car crash of some sort." Tom shrugged. He didn't see how this was of any importance.

"What if the crash sprung something loose in him? I doubt I'm right, but there has to be an explanation. He always seemed at least sort of stable, if a bit touched in the head," she mused.

Tom shrugged. "You yourself seem a bit off your rocker." He said, not really understanding why he was standing up for Sands. Perhaps because he wanted to be the only one 'out to get him.'

"I know I'm crazy, but it's a manageable crazy. It's Sands who's causing bodily harm to people."

Tom didn't argue there. "So what is expected of me at headquarters exactly? I mean I know as much as you do..."

"If I know them, they're going to question you about Sands. That's my only guess," DB admitted.

Tom sighed. "I don't know anything about that fucking psychotic madman." He mumbled.

"You know more than you're willing to admit," DB responded.

"Oooh! Look Nicole's now a mind reader!" Tom said sarcastically.

"I have to make up for it somehow," she replied acidly. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're doing nobody any favors."

"What the f-? How am I feeling _sorry_ for myself?"

"Poor me, I got shot at and almost died! Poor me, my friend turned on me and I don't know why! Poor me, he ran off to a place I can't follow! Tom, every agent realizes there's some degree of danger with the job. It's obvious, wouldn't you say? Well, that also happens to mean that you're not allowed to wallow in self pity every time you almost kick the bucket. It just makes you sound immature, if you want to know the truth," Nicole smiled stiffly.

Tom's eyes narrowed and he leaned over and pinched Nicole's forearm. "Hush up." He muttered.

"No, Tom. Not if you're going to be depressed this entire ride. Where's the Agent McCarthy who didn't take carp from anybody?"

Tom sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Do you _want_ me to shoot you?" He asked smiling slightly.

"If it'll get you out of your funk, I won't say no. I just won't sit quietly and take it either," DB smirked.

Tom laughed snidely. "What'll you do Nicole, hm? What would you do with a gun to your head?" As he said this he slipped his gun out of his holster and swiftly put it to her head.

Nicole nodded slowly, a slow grin crossing her features. Her own gun's muzzle found its way to Tom's crotch in the blink of an eye. "Same thing you'd do with a gun to your manhood I'll wager."

Tom swallowed hard and grinned uneasily. "Very sly Nic." He muttered taking his gun from her head although he didn't holster it. He was waiting for her to take her gun away from him.

"Are you going to cooperate? Behave like the redblooded agent you are?"

"Sure, why not? Are you going to remove your weapon from a very vital organ?"

"Vital? I was aware men could live without em. Course, their called eunuchs, but I can't imagine that would matter to a strong, secure man like yourself," Nicole grinned mischieviously.

Tom swallowed. "Lady-do you have a death wish?" He mumbled scooching back a bit in the seat.

"Now why's it me with the deathwish when I've got my gun trained at you?" DB laughed and reholstered the gun. "Not quite the bravado of the old Tom, but certainly all of the rakishness."

Tom sighed. "What is that you expect?"

"Tom...I just hope you don't take the same road as Sands."

Tom shook his head vigorously. "Hell no. I'm not going ape shit!" He said firmly.

"If you're going to let yourself get depressed and mopey and stressed, I think you might. I worry about these things, Tom."

Tom rolled his eyes and patted her on the cheek smartly. "Don't you worry yourself over ol' Tommy Boy." He sighed. "When can I get back home?" He asked quickly changing the subject.

Dangerbabe sighed, but rolled with it. "When the Company's done with you, I'd wager."

Tom leaned back in the seat heavily closing his eyes wearily. "How much farther now?"

DB raised her eyebrow. "Do I look like I know?"

Tom scowled. "Well wake me when we get there."

Dangerbabe shook her head. Well...it was easier than conversation. She needed a nap. She hunkered down in the limo seat and pulled her jacket over her. She was asleep within the minute.

Tom cracked open an eye. "Nicole?" He whispered. She didn't move. "Nic?" He said a bit louder, and tapped her shoulder gently. When she still didn't stir, he pulled out his cell, his hands shaking slightly with anger. He punched in Sands' number and waited for it to connect tapping his fingers on his knee agitatedly.

Sands cocked his head. It sounded like his cell, but nobody called his number unless they had damn good reason. "Jeffrey's Talented Wenches, we find 'em, you rent em, what's your name and purpose?"

Tom was speechless for a moment. It had been over two weeks since he'd heard his voice. "You-you-you inconsiderate _bastard_!" He hissed.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, you must want Jeffrey's Wonderful Housewives, hang on." Sands cleared his throat and adopted a Cockney accent. "Top of the mornin', what sort of a wife are you lookin' for today?"

"Where the hell are you, Sands?" he growled.

Sands frowned, wondering who it was. The voice was awfully familiar, but the voice belonged to a broken man Sands never expected to hear again.

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. Who's this?"

"Your old partner. Your buddy _Tommy Boy_ that you shot up and left in the hospital so you could go out and fuck the world," he said bitterly.

At least his ears weren't deceiving him. "Tommy Boy. What a...surprise. Why the fuck did you call me?"

"To find out where the hell you are so I know where to start my man hunt." He said with an edge to his voice.

"If I told you that, I think you might try and cause me bodily harm. Much as I love you, I kind of love myself a bit more. You know how it goes."

Tom snorted. "Do I ever." He muttered. "What the fuck are you playing at Sands? Where are you? You do know the company wants you to come in-right?"

"I've known it since two agents had to chase me all the way to Maine. I'm surprised you didn't, Tommy Boy."

"You're surprised I didn't _what_?"

"Know. Suspect. Realize that Danger-fricken-babe and One Toke Over the Line were out to bring us back. That's kind of a new low for you, mentor of mine."

Tom balled up his fist that was in his lap. "They wanted to bring _you_ in. It was _your_ assignment-not mine. As they saw you're quite incapable of following through with an assignment, and following orders."

"What a sin? Tommy Boy, I'm a free spirit. I hate the Company. I'm considering this 'Me Time' so that when I get back to work, I'm not going to accidentally kill someone, savvy?"

"Well I'll just do it for you-savvy that?" Tom retorted.

"Oh, hey, can you off my boss for me? Save me the work?" Sands asked curiously. "I'd appreciate it."

"If there's any ammo after I pump all the lead into your body." He said with a chilling casualness.

"And just when'd you grow yourself a pair of balls, Tommy Boy? What have I done to earn your wrath?"

"You killed Sara." He hissed his hand automatically going to his gun in his holster thinking about it.

"You were really attached to her, weren't you?" Sands murmured.

Tom felt himself blush. "She didn't deserve to die!"

"I guess we'll agree to disagree, won't we, Lover Boy?" Sands answered quietly.

"What the hell did she ever do to you?" He spat indignantly glancing at DB as she stirred slightly.

"Quite a lot."

_Hang up. Hang up now!_

Sands wasn't sure why he wasn't stopping the call. It could have been the loyalty to Tom, but he just wasn't sure. He never made a move to hang up.

"Like _what_?"

"She was going to kill me. She thought she could play my game without consequences. I couldn't let her do that."

"Uh-huh...Well Sands hate to break it to you, but I can't let _you_ get away with murdering her." He said matter of factly.

"Want to bet?"

"What's the wager?"

"Whatever you'd like, Tommy Boy. Because I always win."

"Well there's always a first for everything."

"I doubt that, Tommy Boy," Sands murmured.

"We'll see." He said in a clipped tone and terminated the call, looking over at DB. He glanced outside seeing that they'd arrived at Headquarters. He cleared his throat softly, and slid away from her.

DB didn't move for several minutes afterward. She'd heard most of the call and could guess what it had been about. Frankly, she wanted to curl up in a ball and wait until the madness was over. When she could no longer hide the fact that she'd noticed the car had stopped moving she stretched and made a show of waking up. It was one of the perks of being blind, the lack of facial expressions. "Are we there?"

Tom didn't answer, instead just pushed open his door and shut it. He quickly moved down the drive towards a cab that was leaving. He waved his arms over his head and lumbered as quickly as he could towards it. He had a madman to catch.

"Tom?" DB called.

Tom was already sliding into the back of the cab, giving the driver instructions to the airport. He had a feeling Sands had fled somewhere.

She heard the roar of the taxi engine and felt her morale sink. She also had the sneaking suspicion there'd be no catching him either.

XXX

Sands blinked slowly as he closed his cell phone. His fingers cracked and he winced. He liked Seattle, but it was too cold and wet for his healing injuries. His thigh was the first to recover and his hand followed soon after, albeit reluctantly. He'd cut the cast off with a steak knife. It still popped and twinged if given half a chance. His shin was still enclosed in its plaster prison, but he'd upgraded to cane instead of crutch.

Mort seemed fine. He was all healed, save for the occasional ache of an old bullet hole. The landlord was happy because they paid their rent on time. Everything was splendid...except for the rain and that was to be expected.

Sands shook his head and limped over to the sticky cold leather chair. He hadn't expected Tom's call and it certainly hadn't come at an opportune time.

"Who was that?" Mort asked around a mouthful of Doritos.

"A ghost," Sands sighed.

Mort quirked a brow as he took a swig from a can of Mountain Dew and sat down on the couch next to the chair Sands was in. "Hm? It was a pretty heated conversation from a ghost..."

"He said he was going to haunt our toilet if I didn't put his body to rest," Sands shrugged.

Mort choked on his Mountain Dew. "What?" He said wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

"Yeah, could get messy. Should I put him to rest for All Soul's Day? Let him get a decent eternal rest and all that shit?"

Mort frowned. "I thought he was a ghost."

"Yeah, but ghosts hate it when they're not buried in dirt or cremated or some shit like that. Haven't you ever read comic books?"

"Huh uh. But how can you kill a ghost? They're already dead."

"They technically are. It's their spirits that do all the yowling."

"I see... So...this ghost, is he one that _you_ killed?"

Sands almost answered, "No, of course not, I haven't killed a fucking person in my life," when he snapped his mouth shut. When he thought about it, a kidney stone of remorse made his abdomen contract painfully. "I think so."

Mort quirked a brow. "Really now? I find that rather...unbelievable."

"Why would you say that?" Sands quirked an eyebrow.

Mort rolled his eyes. "How many times did you try to kill me?"

"Never, actually. I've never consciously tried to kill you. Never saw it in my best interest," Sands snorted.

Mort harumphed crossing his arms over his chest.

"Don't you think I'm capable of hitting a moving target in the heart? I got trained in this kind of stuff, John Wayne." Sands rolled his eyes, "Haven't I had more than enough opportunities to kill you if I really wanted you dead?"

"Then how come you've not killed me? I know that you've wanted to on numerous occasions."

"Mort, if I'd ever wanted to kill you...you'd be dead," Sands snapped.

"Ok...we've established that, but why _don't_ you want me dead?"

"Well...I've never felt the need. And...you've kinda...grown...on me..." Sands answered awkwardly.

Mort's lip curled slightly as he glanced at him. "How come you didn't kill me before?" He asked quietly.

"Before when?"

"Before I grew on you..."

"I told you, I never saw the need to kill you. Teach you a lesson, sure, but never kill you. I used to entertain thoughts of bringing you back to HQ then."

"Why did I need to be taught a lesson?" Mort frowned. "You're not going to take me to HQ now? Then why can't I go home?" He pouted. Not that he'd know what to do by himself after not being alone for nearly 3 weeks...

"Because you kept trying to escape, no I'm not taking you to HQ and because someone else is going to come after you with torches and pitchforks, you dope!"

"_So_? Like you care! I can-I can fend for myself!" He said indignantly.

Sands scoffed. "I knick you in a couple places with bullets and you whine like a stuck pig. You're such a fucking hypochondriac, you'd die of the common fucking cold."

Mort stood up huffing. "I most certainly would not!" He dumped his half full can of Mountain Dew on Sands' head and headed into the kitchen for another.

"Oh fuck! God, I'm melting!" Sands yelled.

Mort popped open another can and snorted into it as he took a swig.

Sands took the opportunity to test the miniature water gun he had filled with Mountain Dew. It hadn't congealed, that was a good sign. He dove in front of the doorway to the kitchen and rolled to a crouch in a classic secret agent move. The watergun was cocked and at the ready. He aimed. He fired, sending a stream of Mountain Dew at Mort's nose.

Mort shook his head and opened his mouth preparing to sneeze. "Ah...Ah..." He blinked, and nothing happened. He smiled wryly and made a face at Sands. "Hope you're having fun." He muttered rolling his eyes as he took a drink from his new can of Mountain Dew. All of a sudden, his eyes teared up and his face turned red. When he sneezed, he spewed Mountain Dew all over the kitchen. He looked at Sands partially sheepishly, while also partially accusingly.

"You sneeze when soda goes up your nose? Shit, I get a headache." Sands squeezed his eyes shut to stave off the imaginary headache. "Whatever. I'm taking a shower before the ants attack me."

Mort frowned and looked around. "What ants?"

"The ants that sneak into unsuspecting soda cans during picnics. They don't differentiate between soda in a can and soda-slicked skin. If you let them crawl all over your skin, John Wayne, there'll be nothing left but a meatless skeleton. I've seen it happen. You don't have much time, John Wayne. You'd better get clean," Sands called casually as he waltzed into the bathroom.

"Gah!" He lunged after Sands trying to squeeze into the bathroom first, managing to get stuck between Sands and the doorway.

Sands grunted and tried to dislodge himself from the doorframe, but it clearly wasn't happening. "Jesus tapdancing Christ, Mort, _move_!"

Mort's arms flailed out whacking into Sands and the doorframe. "I'm _trying_!" He said indignantly.

"Oomph, Jesus! Stop, STOP!" Sands snapped.

Mort froze and glanced at Sands quizzically. "Didn't you just say to _move_?"

"Well, it's not working, is it?" he hissed. "Now do as I say. Suck in your gut. Pretend you're trying to impress the girl next door."

"Huh? There's a girl next door? I thought it was a 300 pound guy with a beer belly?"

"His _daughter_, you fucking dip! Suck it in!" Sands yelled.

"Isn't his daughter like 12?" Mort mumbled wiggling.

"Fuck this," Sands snarled and shoved Mort forward into the doorframe. He wedged his knee upwards for some leverage and all but popped out. He landed on his hands and knees on the living room floor with a groan passing his lips.

"Oomph!" He smacked his head against the doorframe and went diving forward into the bathroom, nearly smacking his head on the porcelain tub giving himself a concussion. "That wasn't very nice." He mumbled pushing to his feet a bit dizzy.

"Next time, fucking listen to me," Sands grunted.

Mort made a face moving his mouth in silent mimic of Sands as he grabbed onto the sink trying to keep the room from spinning. He looked in the mirror and realizing he was in the bathroom shot Sands a triumphant grin. "Ha! I beat you in here!"

"Now take a fucking shower. We're going shopping later and you're coming with me." Sands pushed himself to his feet and stretched.

Mort's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Shopping? I don't like people and when you shop, there's loads of people..." He bit his lip. "Why are we going shopping anyway?"

Sands rolled his eyes and opened the fridge. There was one can of Mountain Dew left. "That's why."

"So we're going shopping because I don't like people?" Mort moved to the doorway his hands on his hips, making no move to take a shower.

"Well shit, pardner, you givin' up yer precious Mountain Dew? No skin off my fucking nose, but I would have thought you'd care more about it than that," Sands shrugged.

Mort frowned. "Well why can't _you_ go?" He eyed the last can longingly swallowing hard. He'd have to make it last somehow...

"I could. That's why we have that fucking automatic," Sands sighed. "But I'm not buying soda or Doritos. They rot your fucking teeth and get you stuck in the fucking doorway."

"I wasn't the _only_ one stuck in the doorway!" He huffed. "And it's not like you eat all that healthily. At least Mountain Dew is better than tequila."

"Tequila isn't neon green. Red meat isn't artificially flavored. I didn't get us stuck in the fucking doorway!" Sands jabbed a finger at Mort. He paused to sit on the countertop to alleviate the pressure on his leg. "Of course I don't much give a shit what you eat. Just don't expect me to accommodate you if you're not going to give me a leg up once in a while."

Mort turned and went into the bathroom slamming the door behind him grumbling. He stripped his clothes and took a quick shower emerging from the bathroom a mere 10 minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist. "How about we get some _clothes_ too? I'm tired of this Bangor shirt." He mumbled.

"Jesus, Mort," Sands groaned. "Fine, fine, what the fuck ever, put some clothes on."

Mort mimicked him as he grabbed his clothes and disappeared into a bedroom. He plopped down on the couch a few minutes later with just his pants on. He looked at Sands questioningly. "You're gonna shower too right?"

"Of course. I, unlike you, don't need prompting."

Mort rolled his eyes. "Will you bring that Mountain Dew on your way?"

"Get some exercise and get it yourself," Sands snorted and cleared off into the bathroom.

Mort scowled as he hefted himself up from the couch. He got the last can of the Dew and plopped back down on the couch.

Sands didn't take more than seven minutes. The sooner he finished, the sooner they could shop and consequently, the sooner they'd be done with it all. He threw on a pair of khaki shorts and a holey shirt and rejoined Mort in the living room. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Lemme get that damn Bangor shirt." He muttered moving to slip it over his head and down the remainder of the Mountain Dew.

"You do wash that, don't you?" Sands glanced disdainfully at the gray shirt as he opened the front door.

Mort rolled his eyes. "Have we had _access_ to a washer?"

Sands cocked an eyebrow. "Downstairs. It takes quarters."

Mort rolled his eyes. "_Yes_ I've washed it." He muttered under his breath moving past Sands out the door.

Sands sighed and locked the door.

Mort made his way to the car and stood waiting rather impatiently for Sands to join him and unlock the doors. "Let's make this quick ok?" He mumbled.

"I don't know if you noticed, John Wayne, but that soda can was the _only_ thing in the fridge. It's going to take a bit longer than ten minutes." Sands slid into the driver's seat of the butchered Chevy. The way Sands saw it, any car without a Standard transmission was a castrated vehicle. Mort had insisted he was not a chauffeur and thus, the eunuch Sands was forced to drive until his leg stopped being fucked up.

Mort just slumped in the passenger seat as he pouted. "I hate shopping." He muttered.

"You think I enjoy it? You're a selfish prick, you know that?" Sands spat.

"What? Why am _I_ the selfish prick? I'm not the one that insisted on dragging us cross country." He muttered.

"I'm not going to argue about this anymore. If you're too damn dense to realize it's for your own fucking good, I don't care."

"Well maybe I don't _care_!" Mort scowled as he looked out the window continuing to pout.

"Good. So as long as we both don't care about your opinion, we should be on even ground."

Mort sighed exasperated, but said nothing more for the remainder of the ride. When they arrived at a rather large supermarket, Mort looked up at it from the car disdainfully. "I'll bet there's loads of people in there..." He mumbled.

"No, I called ahead and made sure to get the attendants to clear the store just so we could shop."

"You really should have..."

"Were you going to pay for it?"

"You have to pay for it?"

"Unless you'd rather go in waving a gun. I bet you'd even get your food free too. I don't think the local police would much appreciate it though." Sands shrugged and got out of the car.

"Hey! Hey! That's a thought...Where's your gun?" He asked leaping out of the car and running around to face him before he could move away from the car.

Sands leaned on his cane, a bored look on his face. "Mort, only I'm allowed to be that crazy. Get in the store before I hurt you."

Mort crossed his arms huffing and shook his head. "Gimme the gun!"

"Mort, you're going a swift way to a cracked skull."

"If you're the one plannin' on doin' it I'll..." He bit his lip thinking for a moment. "I'll sic Shooter on you!"

"Yeah, good luck with that," Sands rolled his eyes and brushed past the indignant Mort. "Your attack puppy really scares me. You can't even call him out."

Mort growled and opened his mouth making a show of cracking his jaw. He looked over at Sands...and sighed. He followed him into the store resigned.

"Cart," Sands called, brushing past the entrance.

"You're the handicapped one." He muttered shoving a cart at Sands' back.

Sands sidestepped the cart and watched sourly as Mort nearly lost control of it. "Stop being a whingeing little fuck and let's go." Sands started forward only to have someone kick the cane out of his hand and topple him to the floor. Above him was an apologetic girl.

"Oh God, I'm _so_ sorry! Are you alright?"

Mort snorted as Sands got wiped out. "Your eyes giving you problems too?" He chuckled as he moved past Sands grabbing the cart and proceeding to cautiously make his way through the store stocking the cart with Mountain Dew and Doritos and fresh corn on the cob.

"Fucking A!" Sands snarled. "Where the fuck did you learn manners?"

"I said I was sorry! Let me help you-"

"Get the fuck away from me," he hissed. He caught a glimpse of a nametag. "Stephanie."

She looked surprised for a fraction of a second before realizing she had the nametag. "Listen, here's your cane..."

Sands grabbed it and held in front of him threateningly. "Get the fuck away from me."

Stephanie backed away, horror on her face. Sands slowly got to his feet by grabbing onto a shelf. There was hate in his eyes. Pure, unadulterated loathing.

"Are you okay, sir?" she whispered.

"The hell I am." A gunshot blammed loudly and echoed throughout the store. Screams soon followed and unlucky Stephanie dropped like a stone. "God, stop fucking doing that!" Sands yelled.

_She was going to die anyway. You just helped her along._

"Fuck..." Sands backed away slowly and pretended to fall to the floor in fear.

Mort looked up and saw the hordes of people rushing from the store. "Well...Guess he changed his mind about firing a gun to rid the store of people." He muttered to himself a slight smile on his face. "Was awfully nice of him though." He continued shopping quickly piling stuff into the cart.

Sands crawled backwards in the hopes of finding Mort and still looking suitably petrified. It wasn't long before Mort ran into him with the sopping cart. "Fuck, that's my foot!" Sands snapped. "Don't make me kill you too."

"What-what?" Mort asked his eyes growing wide. "You-you _killed_ someone?" He sighed wearily. "And here I thought you were being nice and scaring the people out of the store." He mumbled grabbing Sands under his arms and hefting him up leaning him against the cart.

Sands had to adjust himself to stand semi upright. He glanced in the carriage and sighed. "Mort. You're not fucking living off that shit. Buy some fucking meat. Something with substance. Not...cheesy poofs."

Mort shot him a glare. "Do we have time before the authorities get here for you to gimp around the store?"

"God I fucking hate you." Sands moved to the front of the cart and stood on the step. He crouched low so Mort could see over his head. "Drive."

Mort grinned and shoved off going towards the butcher counter at breakneck speed.

Sands scooped up meats as his balance would allow. "Move! Fire escape!"

"Where? I can't see over the cow in the cart."

Sands glared at Mort and threw a bag of chips at him. He ducked even lower to the point where he was in danger of falling off. "Move, fucker, move!

"I'm movin', I'm movin'. " He muttered grabbing the chips and tossing them back in the cart as he spotted the fire exit. "What do I do, just smash through it?"

"The alarm's already off, go!" Sands grunted, and crawled beneath the carriage. He was a lot of things, but extremely stupid wasn't one of them.

Mort shrugged and barreled through the door, pushing the cart around to the front of the store where the car was. He saw all the chaos and the patrol cars pulling up. "How we gonna get out of here now?" He questioned Sands.

"Run?"

"We can't outrun the cops! Plus the apartment is like _far_!"

"Christ, why don't you come up with an idea for once?" Sands growled.

Mort shrugged. "Why?"

"Do you want to stand here and get caught with me and called an accomplice or do you want to leave?"

Mort frowned. "I'm not an accomplice. Why do _I_ always have to do everything?" He mumbled pushing Sands across the parking lot.

Sands tugged his leather coat around his ears and face to better aid their unobtrusive escape. "You do shit. I do everything."

"Well it's your fault we're here." He pointed out slipping between cars unnoticed. "How far do you think we can get with a cart full of cow and corn and annoying killers?"

"I'm not the only person who eats the house out of food. You're part of the reason we're here too," Sands muttered. "We'll go as far as we can."

Mort sighed and continued pushing until they reached the street. Then he stopped and bent over to catch his breath. "There's a lot of cow in there." He looked at Sands pointedly.

"The more steak, the merrier," Sands growled. He conveniently ignored the barb.

Mort snorted. "If you're carnivorous." He groaned and stood up to push the cart again quite conveniently hitting a rut in the road sending Sands and the sides of beef flying out of the cart.

Sands hit the pavement on his shoulder, ripping the fabric of his favourite shirt. He scrambled to his feet and gripped Mort by the collar. "I know you're pissed. You've made it quite clear. Stop fucking with me. The more attention you draw to me, the more attention you draw to yourself."

Mort cowered a bit. "Sorry. I didn't know there was a hole in the road!" He said indignantly.

Sands decided he'd be better off if he were walking on his own two feet. He limped along behind Mort, glaring at the ground.

"You need to hang on to the cart?" Mort offered a spot next to him kindly.

"You're just going to knock me down again. And I'm not going to fight back because there are too many witnesses and you're going to throw a nutty. Thanks, but no thanks," Sands grumbled.

Mort shrugged again. "Suit yourself." He said shooting a disdainful look at his prominent limp.

"Don't worry, I will," Sands muttered.

Mort started to hum nonchalantly as they walked along. His body stiffened though when he heard the siren and the crunch of tires as a patrol car pulled up. He glanced over his shoulder nervously at Sands.

Sands didn't look up. His hands were jammed firmly in his pockets with a permanent scowl on his face.

"Uh...Sands?" Mort called in a sing song voice as he shot a smile at the cop.

The window rolled smoothly down and the cop looked at Mort over the top of his sunglasses. "What in the blazes are you doin'?"

"Uh..." Mort looked to Sands again. "Going for a walk?"

"We're fucking prostitutes, what the fuck do you think we're doing?" Sands growled.

The cop's eyes narrowed. "Sir I see what you're doing, but you also look a mite suspicious just walking away from a crime scene..." He pulled the car over.

Mort continued walking staring straight ahead, swallowing hard not saying a word. He continued at the same pace, knowing Sands wouldn't be able to keep up if he moved quicker.

_You dun don' care bout that man, why don you jest pick up yer feet and run Morty? Get away while you can. Ya'll dun got a place to live so you don' need him no more Morty._

"Yes I do..." Mort whispered frantically glancing back to make sure Sands was keeping up with his unconsciously quicker footsteps.

Sands was still stubbornly keeping his gaze on the ground with similar thoughts running through his mind.

_What the fuck do you think you're doing?_

"Whatever the fuck I want to. I don't care. You're going to fuck up my life and everything in it. I'm going to enjoy what left of it."

_You're moping! Get over yourself, you fucking psycho!_

"Shut up, I'm not listening to you."

Mort frowned and stopped. "Well I didn't want to be dragged along for your little trip to begin with! You have no right to be angry with me for "fucking up your life"!"

"Oh get a fucking hint, Mort. You of all people should know when I'm not talking to you," Sands glowered.

"Oh...Right." He looked away.

"Is everything alright?" The cop inched closer warily.

"Fuck off. Everything's peachy." Sands replied.

The cop frowned. "Sir can I see your ID?" He demanded rather than asked, moving to step in front of Sands with his back to Mort.

Mort turned around and frowned. He slowly turned the cart full of cow around and backed up few paces preparing to charge.

"No. You can't," Sands returned acidly, sidestepping the cop and continuing on his way.

"_Sir_..." The cop said in a warning tone moving to grasp Sands' arm.

Just as the cop grabbed Sands' wrist, Mort went barreling into his back. The cop's face barely had a moment to register surprise before he was flung at Sands, body slamming him to the ground. Mort looked over the cart at Sands sprawled beneath the cop's body, sheepishly.

"Whoops..." He mumbled.

The cop was disoriented and shocked enough that he just lay on top of Sands bewildered, and was easily shoved off.

Sands felt like he'd been run over by a truck. A truck with a gun mounted on its thigh that was now jammed into Sands crotch. When the cop was unceremoniously shoved aside by Mort, it took a minute before Sands willing to talk in a normal tone of voice.

"Thanks," he wheezed.

Mort didn't bother replying to the hasty 'thanks', instead jerked Sands to his feet and pushed him towards the patrol car. "Figure out how to get the trunk open." He said wheeling the cart to the back of the car.

Sands barely had time to catch himself against the side of the car. The urgency of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. He popped the trunk and wobbled into the back seat.

Mort quickly dumped the cart's contents-quite literally scratching up the rear fender of the car-and then moved into the driver's seat. "I get to drive huh?" He shot Sands a grin in the rearview mirror. He caught a glance of the cop stumbling to his feet, and started the car. He peeled out spewing dirt and rocks on the cop. "Where are we going?" He asked his eyes on the road.

"Wherever your twisted little head wants. I just want a drink." Sands groaned, not bothering to sit up. He thought the only nameless thing in his head was pissed at him and this was the backlash. Better to drown him in alcohol now than to do something even stupider later.

"Well we gotta ditch this car first..." He mumbled peering through the windshield trying to figure out where to go and what to do with the car. They also had to have a way to get their groceries back to their apartment.

"Then ditch the car. You sound like you're new to this whole fugitive thing," Sands articulated into the seat.

He glared into the rearview mirror. "It is." He ground out.

"What is?"

"It is a new thing for me!" He protested hotly his eyes locked on Sands'.

"Well, think of it as an adventure."

Mort rolled his eyes. "Well would you mind pointing me in the right direction?" He returned his gaze to the road to see that they were headed straight for a ditch.

"To _where_?"

"To anywhere!" He cried jerking the car back to the lane, his eyes frantically searching the mirrors knowing that any minute he'd see a swarm of cop cars on their tail.

"God, if you're going to be a fucking pussy, get out of the car and run the fuck away."

"Fine!" Mort whipped the car to the side of the road killing the engine.

"I don't hear you running..."

Mort harrumphed and pushed out of the car popping the trunk. He slammed the door and went to the trunk grabbing a case of Mountain Dew and a bag of Doritos and starting down the road mumbling something about good for nothing bastards.

Sands wanted to join Mort, say he was just dicking around and being a hormonal fuck. Rather that Nameless was being a hormonal fuck, but Sands would take what he could get at this point. He still hadn't gotten out of the back seat.

He heard the low wail of sirens in the distance. His head moved fractionally to better catch the sound and judge how much time he had. Turned out to be not long at all.

**Honour Roll: Merrie- **I miss House, do you miss House? I miss House. **MrsLoDepp- **Welcome to the fan club, we've got t-shirts. : ) Here's more.


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